


A Few Weeks

by Blackghost7



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Getting Together, M/M, Mention of some previous events, Post-Series, but no major spoilers (is that even still possible now?), no Rosie Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 03:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 155,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16054439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackghost7/pseuds/Blackghost7
Summary: It's a little over a year after the events of Sherrinford, and life seems to have settled. But there's a lot brewing under the surface, and most of it concerns that most horrid and inexplicable thing to a Holmes: emotions! A completely insignificant event leads John Watson to discover he didn't know his best friend Sherlock - or Lestrade and Mycroft - nearly as well as he thought the did. Just a few weeks turn his life upside down yet again.~~~~~"Are you saying you're more powerful than the Queen, Mycroft?"Lestrade bit back his grin at John's cheeky teasing. Mycroft was not amused."I am saying that certain things are better and more efficiently handled from the shadows behind the throne.""Yes, like Lestrade's naughty bits," Sherlock drawled, appearing behind his brother.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, a weird thing happened… I took a hiatus from writing NCIS fic and did other projects. But when I finally sat down to finish my last (latest) posted NCIS story, The House That Love Built (all planned out and everything!), I kept getting distracted by what you find below. Since this is what prevented me from finishing that particular story in my original fandom so far, I thought it only fair to post this under my NCIS pen name. 
> 
> For those NCIS fans out there following me strictly for that, I hope you give this story a chance as well. It's basically just a love story, with lots of angst, a little hurt, loads of comfort and a tiny bit of humor thrown in for good measure.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think!

Just as John was wondering how this had become his life after the death of his wife, watching a movie on a Wednesday afternoon with Sherlock and Irene Adler of all people in the flat at Baker Street, The Woman in question quickly got up off the couch, suddenly pale and sweating. She retreated to the bathroom, and they heard her throwing up several times, appearing in the doorway minutes later after having washed her face.

She was still dreadfully pale and shaking a little. 

John was at her side in a moment, Sherlock hovering over his shoulder. For a second, John wondered whether Sherlock had done something to Irene for one of his experiments to cause this, but then his rational mind took over. Besides, the deeply concerned and disturbed look on Sherlock's face showed him the panic was real.

Quickly checking her over, John determined Irene had succumbed to the flu, a particularly nasty and virulent strain had been going around London for weeks. He'd had the patients in his surgery to prove it. John went into doctor mode, and used his calm voice to instruct Sherlock what to do. He had the detective lift the lady and put her on his bed, and then had him fetch water and a large bowl. Having been treating the symptoms of others for weeks now, he was pretty sure what was to come next.

He was not wrong. Sherlock had barely laid Irene down on his own bed when the woman started fidgeting, and as soon as Sherlock returned with the bowl, she emptied the meager remaining contents of her stomach into it. Helping her clean up her face with a wet flannel, John made her drink a few sips of water, which she only managed to hold down for a couple of minutes before expelling them again. This continued for a while, until Irene finally settled down, too exhausted and ill to do anything but let the boys care for her. John asked Sherlock to retrieve some nightclothes for her, and they helped her change into a pair of Sherlock's pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and got her as comfortable as they could in Sherlock's bed. 

When John had her settled a little, he fed her some pills and gave her a shot, then went to the bathroom to clean out the bowl and get fresh water for the woman. He returned to find Sherlock perched in his chair in his bedroom, his eyes fixed on Irene, deeply concerned.

"Has she been poisoned, John?"

"No, Sherlock. In my professional opinion, it's just the flu. There has been a nasty 24-hour bug going around, remember I told you about it?"

Sherlock shook his head, and John was not surprised Sherlock would either not have been listening, or would have deleted the information as soon as John had given it to him. He sighed.

"It's nothing terrible. She's caught the flu, and she will make a swift recovery. She is remarkably healthy and strong. It will be fine, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, but his gaze did not leave the woman the entire time John was there.

For hours, John tended to her, cooling her down with wet flannels and giving her sips of water, while Sherlock looked on in helpless desperation. Eventually, John decided he should get some sleep. Irene was still fidgeting, even in her exhausted rest, and John had not been able to persuade Sherlock to leave her side, nor had he gotten the detective to eat or drink anything. John figured he could catch a few hours of sleep, then at least one of them would be awake enough to tend to her in the morning.

After the Fall, when he'd married Mary, and after the events of her death, John had been absent from Baker Street. At first, obviously, because he'd lived with his wife; then, because of the anger he'd felt towards Sherlock. The detective had promised to protect her, them, and this had been the second time Sherlock had let John down in any truly significant way. Between the Fall, Mary's bringing them back together, their marriage and her death, and their subsequent reconciliation, it had been over three years since John had lived with Sherlock at Baker Street. And in that time, things had changed. 

Mrs Hudson was not as fond of John as she had been in the past. Irene Adler was apparently a friend now, who came round the flat sometimes simply to spend an evening in their company. Anthea showed up every now and then, and was not ignored or scoffed at for being Mycroft's pawn, but welcomed and bantered with almost amiably. Even Mycroft himself, on his semi-regular visits, was, seemingly reluctantly, accepted there by Sherlock. And John had even heard Sherlock call Lestrade 'Greg' a few times, though Sherlock always scowled when he caught himself doing it. 

In the morning, still yawning, John made his way down from his own bedroom to Sherlock's. The detective was still perched in his chair, dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, but had clearly been taking care of Irene during the night. She was still in the throws of fever, but it was obvious that Sherlock had cooled her down with soaked fresh flannels a few times, and had taken care of her needs. John checked her over, and found she was still quite ill, though seemed more comfortable. He was unable to get Sherlock to move and eat something.

In the afternoon, Sherlock called John back into the room.

"You said this was a 24-hour bug, John. It has been 26 hours."

John sighed. Of course Sherlock would take him literally.

"It's an expression, Sherlock. It doesn't usually take long. She might need a few more hours."

Then, to John's complete surprise, Sherlock pulled out his phone and muttered: "I need Mycroft."

Before John could do or say anything, Sherlock was dialing, and seconds later talking to his brother.

"I need you, brother mine. Please come to Baker Street."

*****

It was barely twenty minutes later when Mycroft, dressed impeccably as always, made his way into the flat. There were more surprises to follow for John. One, Greg Lestrade, dressed in old jeans and a t-shirt, was following right on Mycroft's heels. Two, Mrs Hudson came up to check on the commotion, and greeted Mycroft cordially before retreating to prepare tea and biscuits for them all. Three, Sherlock latched onto his brother when the older man and Greg entered Sherlock's bedroom at John's motioning gesture.

Mycroft took in his surroundings while comforting his little brother.

"What happened, brother mine?"

"She collapsed yesterday afternoon during a visit. John said it was a 24-hour flu, but it has been over 26 hours now, My."

Meanwhile, Lestrade had made his way to the bed and placed his hand on the woman's brow to feel her temperature and assess her. 

"John?" he asked.

John quickly gave the rundown on Irene's condition, and what he'd administered to her, and what he'd surmised Sherlock had done during the night. Mycroft nodded.

"You did well, Sherlock," he said kindly, pulling slightly back to look his little brother in the face. "You took good care, thank you."

John thought the phrasing was odd, but let it go for now. Mycroft moved to the other side of the bed to perform his own assessment, then turned to Sherlock again. 

"I think a cool bath would soothe her, little brother. Could you start filling the tub? Not too cold, mind."

Without a word, Sherlock got out of his chair and disappeared into the bathroom to fill the tub with luke warm water. Mycroft and Lestrade watched him, then glanced at each other, then at John, and shrugged. 

The next few minutes were like nothing John had expected. Hearing the water running in the tub, he saw Sherlock return from the bathroom and look to his brother for guidance. Mycroft shed his jacket, waistcoat and shoes, and Lestrade took them and put them away in the living room while Mycroft rolled up his shirt sleeves. Then he carefully lifted Irene from the bed, and had Sherlock follow them into the bathroom. Meanwhile, Lestrade returned, quickly stripped the bed and put clean sheets on it, then pulled out fresh sleepwear from Sherlock's closet. Seeing John's questioning glance, he smirked.

"Not the first time I've changed Sherlock's sheets, mate."

Hearing Sherlock's voice from the bathroom, John peeked in.

"Is it all right, Mycroft?"

Mycroft, having put Irene down into a sitting position on the rim of the tub and having Sherlock hold her up, quickly checked the water. 

"Perfect, brother mine."

Then he carefully removed the pajama bottoms, leaving the too large t-shirt on Irene, before taking her in his arms again and slowly lowering her down into the water. She shivered for a moment, then relaxed.

"You did really well, Sherlock. Thank you."

"Is she going to be alright?"

"She'll be fine, my sweet. It may take a while longer, but this fever will break. This will make her more comfortable. Remember, like it used to do for you?"

"I remember," Sherlock whispered, and looked on as his brother carefully scooped handfuls of tepid water over the shivering woman.

*****

After a few minutes in the bath, Irene seemed to revive a little. The shivering abated, and she opened her eyes, seeing clearly for the first time since she'd collapsed.

"Mycroft? What happened?"

She didn't seem upset or embarrassed at having the two Holmes men hovering over her in her state, but then John remembered the first time he met her, and realized modesty was not one of her virtues.

"You've caught the flu, my dear, and collapsed yesterday afternoon. Sherlock and Dr Watson have been caring for you since then."

"How dreadfully embarrassing," she sighed. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged. "Just feel better soon."

She gave him a tired but grateful smile.

"Do you think you can sit up, my dear? Now that you've cooled down a little, we should get you dry and dressed again."

She nodded, but it was clear that she would need help. Lestrade quickly brought in the fresh nightclothes he'd found, and then grabbed John by the arm and dragged him out of the bathroom to the living room, leaving the two Holmeses to help Irene. Mrs Hudson was just bringing in the tea and biscuits, and glanced anxiously towards the sounds in the bathroom.

"How is she, Gregory?"

"Still a bit shaky, Mrs Hudson, but it looks like she's feeling a little better for now. It'll probably be another day or two before she's well enough to take care of herself again."

"Well, in that case I'll go prepare my chicken soup. Do see to it the poor girl gets some tea into her, won't you, Gregory?"

"Of course, and thank you, Mrs Hudson!" Lestrade called after her as she retreated to her kitchen to make soup. Smiling, Lestrade poured tea and handed one mug to John, who had settled in his chair, and took another for himself before sitting down on the couch. They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the soft voices coming from the bedroom. Eventually, Mycroft and Sherlock emerged, leaving the bedroom door partially open, and Lestrade immediately poured two more mugs of tea. Mycroft accepted one and settled on the other end of the couch, but Sherlock started pacing. They watched him for a few moments, then Lestrade spoke in a no nonsense tone.

"Sherlock. Tea."

The consulting detective froze for a moment, then hurried to the couch and sat himself down between his brother and Lestrade, and accepted the mug Greg held out to him, sipping it carefully.

"And when you've finished your tea," Mycroft said, reaching out his free hand to card his fingers through his little brother's curls, "you should take a nap. You have not slept in far too long."

"But, Irene…" Sherlock started to protest.

"John and Gregory and I will care for her while you rest. It will not do her much good if you are too exhausted to help, now will it, brother mine?"

Sherlock acquiesced, and took a few more minutes to finish his tea. Then he put down the mug and, after a quick glance towards John, shifted into a lying position, his head in Mycroft's lap, his feet in Lestrade's. John's eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he saw Sherlock settle down comfortably, allowing his brother to card through his curls, and Lestrade stroking his lower legs in his lap. After a few moments, Sherlock raised his head a little and looked at Lestrade.

"Greg? Could you…?"

Before he could ask the question, Lestrade smiled and started humming softly, a pleasant little tune that sounded familiar but wasn't. Sherlock sank back into them and within minutes was asleep. They stayed like that through another cup of tea, and Lestrade kept humming quietly, the tune changing from one melody into another, never quite becoming a song. 

All three men were pulled from their contemplation of the sleeping detective when Irene appeared in the bedroom doorway, dressed in the fresh sleepwear and Sherlock's long silk robe.

"Ah, my dear! Do you feel well enough to sit for a while and have some tea?" Mycroft asked softly.

She nodded and, prompted into action by Mycroft's pointed look, John got up and helped her over to Sherlock's chair, providing her with a mug of sweet tea. He quickly checked her temperature.

"You still have a fever, but your temperature is lower. I expect you'll start to feel better in the morning."

She smiled and nodded again, sitting quietly and sipping her drink. Then she looked over at Sherlock.

"Is he alright?"

"Just tired, my dear. He has not slept this entire time."

They sat like that for about forty minutes, talking only sporadically and quietly, while Irene managed to down two mugs of tea and some of the crackers Mrs Hudson had provided for her next to the biscuits for the men, before she started to droop again and was helped back to the bedroom by John. When he returned from settling her in bed, Lestrade and Mycroft were talking.

"Should we have taken them home, Mycroft? We might have made it."

"I suspect not, Gregory. I would not have wanted to move her without her having something in her stomach, and the trip would have been much more exhausting than simply sitting in a chair here."

"So, are we staying here tonight, then?"

"It is for the best. Sherlock is very tired and Irene is not yet well. But you should return home, Gregory. You have work in the morning. I can handle things here."

Lestrade snorted.

"Like I'm gonna be able to rest knowing you're here worrying. Besides, I don't have to go in tomorrow anyway."

"Oh?" Mycroft's eyebrow was raised in curiosity.

"As soon as she told me what was going on and you were on your way here, I asked Anthea to clear my schedule too. By the time I got into the car I already had an e-mail from HR and the Chief Super confirming my secondment to your office for as long as required."

"Secondment, Gregory?"

"Anthea's idea. She said it had been a while since you'd appropriated me away from NSY, and she'd rather I use my sick days or holiday leave for, you know, when I'm actually sick or going on holiday."

"You are very fortunate that she likes you."

"I'm very fortunate that the Chief Super is an old lecher who'd do anything for your Anthea, even knowing he'll never get anything in return."

"That is true as well," Mycroft said with a smile. "I suppose I had better let her know we shall be staying here for now." And he took out his phone and started quickly texting. 

Lestrade carefully extracted himself from under Sherlock's legs, and started putting away the tea tray, returning from the kitchen with four glasses and a bottle of whiskey, the good kind they kept around mostly for Mycroft, John realized. After pouring two glasses, Lestrade quirked an eyebrow at John in question and, on his nod, poured for John as well. Then he carefully settled back on the couch, pulling Sherlock's legs onto his lap again, and hummed some more when Sherlock fidgeted a moment in his sleep, quickly settling him down again.

As John sipped his drink, he watched the three men on the couch and contemplated. Just last night he'd thought about the changes at Baker Street in his absence, but this went further than he'd thought about then. Mycroft was openly affectionate with Sherlock, not even hiding the emotion on his face as he looked down to his brother. Lestrade was very comfortable not just with Sherlock, but with Mycroft as well, something very intimate about their conversation. And Sherlock was as calm and settled as John had ever seen him, clearly drawing comfort from the two men, letting down all his guards, even in John's presence. John had clearly missed something more than he'd thought.

He was roused out of his thoughts by a quick knock on the door, and without waiting for a reply, the door opened and Anthea stepped inside, eyes glued to her phone as always. She stepped aside to let two men enter, who were carrying some contraption between them. Without looking up, she pointed to the corner where Sherlock's chair sat, and the men put down the contraption, moved aside Sherlock's chair and the other furniture that cluttered that corner of the room, then set up the thing which turned out to be a quite fancy double camping bed. While they were busy doing that, two more men arrived with shopping bags, and she pointed them to the kitchen where they quickly cleaned out the refrigerator, even washing it out with hot soapy water, before stashing the groceries away. All four men left as silently as they'd come in when done, and Anthea closed the door behind them. Finally she looked up.

"Anything else, Sir?"

"No, thank you, Anthea. Perfect as always."

She actually smiled.

"It was a matter of moments to have the bed and groceries brought over."

She walked over and bent down to softly touch Sherlock's forehead and cheek, careful not to wake him.

"Is he alright?"

"Yes, dear. Just tired. He called in time."

"Good." She straightened. "Can I…?"

"She's in Sherlock's bedroom."

Anthea turned on her heel and headed into the bedroom, where they heard her murmuring softly for a few minutes before coming out again.

"I shall keep you informed, of course, Sir, and be back here tomorrow to check in in person."

"Thank you."

WIth a nod to Mycroft and Greg, Anthea took her leave and disappeared.

*****

Only a few minutes after Anthea had left, Sherlock woke up, for real this time, though he kept his eyes closed for a moment.

"Anthea was here."

"You just missed her, brother mine."

"Oh. My, can you stay…?" He opened his eyes and saw the double camping bed set up in the corner. "Oh. Thank you."

"Why don't you go take a shower and change your clothes?" Lestrade suggested, patting Sherlock's leg. "You'll feel better."

"I think I will, Greg," Sherlock answered after a moment, and, with another glance at John, got up and disappeared into his room. They heard him quietly moving around so as to not wake Irene, and then heard the shower start.

John took another sip of whiskey, refilled his glass, and leaned back, staring at the two men.

"So," he started, "I see a lot of things have changed during my absence."

Mycroft and Lestrade actually looked surprised for a second, then the masks dropped down on both of their faces.

"I assure you, Dr Watson, all that changed was that my brother and I came to an understanding."

Lestrade leaned forward to refresh his and Mycroft's drinks as well.

"An understanding?"

"Yes," Mycroft sighed, sipped his fresh drink, and leaned back and closed his eyes. "When Sherlock found himself back here alone, obviously we worried about him. And we may have overdone our caring a little. Sherlock rebelled, of course, and we came to an understanding. We would tone down our mollycoddling, as he called it, and he would honestly let us know whenever and as soon as he was in need of us. It took some time to rebuild the trust on both sides, but eventually the arrangement worked."

"So you banded together to keep him from doing drugs. How is that any different from what we've done for years?"

"Not drugs, John. We can all see that coming, you know that," Lestrade said softly.

"My brother was never meant to be alone, Dr Watson, he hasn't the temperament for it. Of course, his mind would always make that difficult for him, as he would be able to find so few to relate to. When he was young, that did not matter so much. Back then, he had me for that. It wasn't until I finally left for university that the rift between us began."

Mycroft grimaced as if in physical pain at the admission.

"When I returned home for the holidays the first time, he had already withdrawn from me, and would not let me near again. I tried to repair the relationship several times, but was never successful. I feared I had lost him forever when at last Gregory appeared in his life."

"Ah, yes," John said, a little sarcastically, "the famous story of how Sherlock showed up high at a crime scene and Greg took him under his wing. I've heard that before."

"It wasn't quite like that, mate," Lestrade said somewhat sharply. "Yes, he showed up high, yes, I was the only one willing to listen to him, and yes, I offered to help if he got clean, but that took a few months. Sometimes he'd show up sober, but then a week later, he'd be high off his tits again. But I did see something in him, and I did want to help. It was I think three months after our first meeting when he showed up high again, and I finally decided to take him home. My wife wasn't best pleased, but then, she wasn't pleased at much of anything I did by then, so I told her I was going to help him, and if she didn't like it, she could just bugger off."

"Wait, what?" John looked surprised. "I thought you only got divorced a few years ago?"

Lestrade laughed.

"No, mate. With work, and Sherlock, and everything, I just didn't want to deal with any sympathy or pity, so I just never told anyone, never took off my ring. No one ever asked."

Mycroft smiled and reached out to gently pat the detective inspector's leg, and got a sweet smile from Lestrade in return. It was in itself an innocuous gesture, but coming from Mycroft Holmes, it made something click in John's mind, and his eyes widened further. Before he could comment though, the bedroom door opened and Sherlock appeared, freshly washed and dressed in sleepwear and his robe. He glanced at the three men, clearly deducing them, then shrugged and poured himself a whiskey as well. Then he settled back onto the couch in between the other two, and leaned against Lestrade. It wasn't a hug, it wasn't snuggling, he just leaned against the policeman, who didn't seem to mind.

"Sherlock? Do you agree with this?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock sipped his drink and thought about it seriously for a few moments, not just blurting out an answer as he was usually wont to do. 

"Yes, brother mine. I think, after the events of today and what is to follow, John should know about this."

"Right then," Lestrade said after another sip, "so Sherlock's in my guest room coming down, and his body starts going through withdrawal while his mind's still elsewhere. It took him two days for his head to clear. I'd taken my annual leave so I could be there for him, even though it was clear he wasn't very pleased at my presence. But his body was too weak to let his mind take over and take him away from there, so he was kind of at my mercy. And he was shivering and fidgeting and quite frankly gross after two days of withdrawal, so I put him in the bath."

"You put me in the bath in my pants. It was quite uncomfortable." Sherlock mumbled.

"Well, yeah! I was trying to help you, not make you think I was after you for something else." He chuckled. "Besides, I had no desire to see you like that. You were complaining and uncomfortable enough as it was." He turned back to John. "And when I tried to help him wash, he tried to push me away. But he was so weakened, thin and exhausted, that he couldn't do much more than simply put his hand against my chest."

"And when I did, he started to hum. It was delicious. I could feel the sound reverberating in his chest, and it was the first time since I was little and Mycroft had held me and talked to me that I felt comforted."

"Yeah, it really calmed him down, and he let me clean him up, always keeping a hand on my chest and complaining when I fell silent. It took a few days before he was strong enough to sit up for a while, get him to eat something, and then he'd lean against me, listening to me hum. Sometimes he'd have his hand on my chest, sometimes he'd put his ear to my heart, and just listen."

"Meanwhile," Mycroft cut in, "I was trying to find my little brother. None of his usual haunts or contacts provided anything in the way of information regarding his whereabouts, and I was desperate to know he was still alive. So I decided to consult the detective I knew he had had dealings with in the months before, only to be told that Lestrade had taken a sudden leave of absence. Therefore, I went to his home. It should please you to know, Dr Watson, that my first encounter with Gregory went even less well than my first meeting with you."

Lestrade and Mycroft and even Sherlock smiled.

"I had of course been trying to get Sherlock to tell me whether he had any family, friends, anyone else that cared for him, and had gotten nothing but unavailable parents and a big brother who'd abandoned him. Even then I knew enough to know that probably wasn't the whole story, but still, it pays to be wary. So when Mycroft shows up and tries to intimidate me, I quickly figure out that this must be the big brother, and I'm not willing to just let him in. But when Mycroft eventually simply just asked me to please let him know if Sherlock was alright, I could see how much he cared."

"Gregory agreed to ask Sherlock to see me, and let me know when and where. So when the next day I received a text inviting me back to his home, I was all too eager to cancel everything I had on my agenda to be there. And when I arrived, I was happy to see my little brother looking better than he had in months, even though he was clearly recovering. Still, I was terribly disconcerted when Sherlock seemed to cling to Gregory, worrying about the implications."

"Yeah, when I sent Sherlock off to bed for a rest, Mycroft started with his intimidation thing again, wanting to know my intentions with his baby brother." Lestrade chuckled.

Mycroft blushed a little.

"Well, you can hardly blame me for finding the situation troubling!"

"Of course not. And I didn't blame you. In fact, I invited you back the next day. When I talked to Sherlock about it that evening, he seemed more settled than before."

"I was," Sherlock nodded. "While Greg settled me physically, humming and talking, and knowing exactly when I wanted a comforting arm around me and when I just wanted to lean, I had realized that afternoon that Mycroft's voice quieted my mind. Even while they were talking about me as if I wasn't even there." He glared at the two men in turn. "But when Greg said that Mycroft was coming back the next day, I found myself actually looking forward to it."

"When I saw that, I knew I'd made the right decision letting Mycroft in. Over the next week, Mycroft came to visit every day, and Sherlock was making fast strides forward in his recovery. He even felt comforted enough to sit with Mycroft, and let his big brother care for him, when I deliberately left them alone one day and went out to the shops to give them some time together. And when my two weeks of leave was up, we all felt secure enough for Sherlock to move in with Mycroft for a bit."

"But a few days after that, Sherlock became fidgety again," Mycroft sighed. "And we both realized that he needed Gregory's soothing presence as well as mine. I could quieten Sherlock's mind and to some degree his body, and Gregory could do the opposite, quieten his body and to some degree his mind. Together, we could calm him entirely."

John was listening and watching with wide eyes and a death grip on his glass of whiskey.

"So every few days, the three of us would get together, usually at Mycroft's place, and we'd cook and sit together."

At John's incredulous look, Sherlock huffed.

"Of course I know how to cook, John. Cooking is just chemistry. And Mycroft likes to eat, so naturally he knows how to prepare his favorite meals. Greg lived alone for a long time before getting married, so of course he knows how to look after himself."

John blinked and blushed a little, never having thought of that. Lestrade chuckled again.

"And then one evening after dinner, we were sitting there, Sherlock leaning against me, Mycroft relaxing on my other side, and I thought to myself that was perfect. One man to look after and love as a little brother, another to look after and love as a partner. And that's when things started getting difficult again."

All four men frowned, albeit for different reasons.

"I could not accept that my attraction to Gregory was reciprocated, and it took us months to admit to it. By then, Sherlock was doing so much better he had moved into his own flat at Montague Street, and our meetings had dwindled down to once every two weeks or so. It was of course the worst time for Gregory and myself to try and embark into a new phase of our relationship."

"Yeah, we really messed that up. Should've talked to Sherlock about it before anything happened anyway."

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I could have spoken to you. I did not. The blame is not yours."

Now Lestrade did put his arm around the consulting detective still leaning against him.

"Yeah, but it was still bad judgment on our part. You were doing so much better, but we shouldn't have made you feel left out. Should've realized how it would affect you."

"I did worry I was to be left alone again."

Mycroft took his little brother's hand and brought it to his lips, softly and sweetly kissing Sherlock's knuckles.

"Never, brother mine, never."

Sherlock smiled.

"I know that now. Then, I worried."

His smile turned into a frown.

"I spiraled, and eventually I relapsed. I woke up in the hospital with Mycroft at my side, telling me I'd overdosed. He asked me to move back in with him for a while, and I did. Greg was there, and I quickly recovered, but it took me a long while to see that the easiness between them had disappeared. It was only after I had returned to Montague Street, and I found out that Greg had returned to his own flat, that I realized they had terminated their impending liaison for my sake. I could not let myself once again stand between my brother and his happiness."

"So Sherlock called us to Montague Street, and the three of us talked about it." Greg smiled. "And we made a deal. We would always be there for Sherlock, and he would tell us what he needed. It worked. We took it slowly, and about a year later, when everything was going well, I moved in with Mycroft. That really just made it easier."

"In some ways, yes," Mycroft winced, "in others, no. Easier in the sense that whenever Sherlock needed us, we would both already be there. More difficult because, as stated, Gregory was as far as everyone thought they knew, still married. And I already had a pressure point in Sherlock, and could not afford another in Gregory as well. Nor would it be beneficial to Gregory to have it known that not only was he in a relationship with another man, but with Sherlock's brother. So out of necessity, it was kept quiet."

"Well, you certainly succeeded in that!" John huffed.

"But surely you can now see why, Dr Watson. The antagonistic relationship Sherlock and I cultivate in public has managed to divert unwanted attention on several occasions. Had Sherlock been seen to truly befriend Gregory, questions would have been raised as to the true nature of the relationship. Had Moriarty known that Gregory was not only of use to Sherlock, but somewhat of a necessity, and not only to him but to me as well, you can be sure his endgame would have ended up quite differently. And Magnussen? Can you imagine what he would have done had he known he could have had not one but two Holmeses in his pocket in one fell swoop had he threatened Gregory?"

"Oi! I'm not helpless, you know!"

Immediately, both Holmes brothers tried to soothe the peeved detective inspector. It was clearly a longstanding point of contention between the three. John almost smiled, but then gave in to the questions pressing to the forefront. He looked at Lestrade.

"So what else have you been keeping secret from me? Did you know about Mary? Did you know Sherlock wasn't dead after the Fall? Did you know about Eurus?"

Greg blushed a little.

"Well, ehm… yes, I did know. About Mary, only after she shot Sherlock. About the Fall, only after I saw how Mycroft was handling it, and I knew something was off. About Eurus, yes, I knew about her even before Sherlock remembered."

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their drinks, to let that sink in. 

"You have to understand, John," Lestrade said eventually, "by the time Sherlock fell, Mycroft and I had been together for years already. At first, he tried to hide it, refused to tell me about the game they'd played and the snipers pointed at me, you and Mrs Hudson. But like I said, I knew something was off. And we made a deal then. Mycroft is allowed to hide his work, but not something this personal. So when Sherlock and Mycroft found out about Mary, and she'd already made her move and shot Sherlock, they came clean to me. My told me about Eurus somewhere in between, and I can assure you, it's gone against everything I stand for to keep that from Sherlock. But I did see why it had to be done."

Again silence fell for long moments.

"And Sherlock saying your wife was cheating on you with a PE teacher?"

"Subterfuge," Sherlock said, as Lestrade answered: "One of Sherlock's jokes."

"I see," John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So every time you 'forget' Greg's name, that's subterfuge? Every time you argue with Mycroft, that's to throw people off the scent? Every time you hide something from me, every time you lie to me, even about my own damn wife, that's to protect me??"

Sherlock looked slightly taken aback at the vehemence. His voice was small.

"Well, basically, yes."

Before John could reply, Mrs Hudson trundled in with a huge pot of what smelled like delicious chicken soup and a smile on her face, which fell when she became aware of the tension in the room. John got up and grabbed his coat.

"I'm going out for a pint."

*****

At John's departure, the men stumbled into action. Well, Lestrade and Mycroft did. Lestrade relieved Mrs Hudson of her delicious smelling burden and brought it and her into the kitchen, where they quickly worked together to clean and set the table. Mycroft retreated to the bedroom to check on Irene, and returned with her a few minutes later, to see if she was up to eating some soup. Sherlock pulled his legs up to his chest and rested his head on his knees.

As Mycroft helped Irene to the table, Lestrade coaxed a very subdued Sherlock off the couch. The five of them sat at the table, Mycroft having convinced Mrs Hudson to stay as well, and she and Mycroft encouraged Irene to eat soup and crackers while Lestrade tempted Sherlock into eating.

"I've clearly missed something while sleeping," Irene said between small bites. "Where is the good doctor?"

"Dr Watson was informed of some things while you were resting, my dear. He apparently did not take it well."

"Ah. Are all the cats out of the bag now then?" She asked with a small smile. "It has been difficult to keep quiet."

Though they were something resembling friends now, it had not been the Holmes brothers who had informed Irene of the multiple secrets revealed to John that afternoon. She had her own sources still, and there was no doubt that secrets would still remain between them. Mycroft thought it best to be clear.

"He has been informed of the relationship between Gregory and myself, between Sherlock, Gregory and myself, and about the pre-existing knowledge Gregory had of Mary Morstan, Sherlock's so-called death, and our sister."

"Quite a shock, I'm sure," she murmured after a moment. 

"Indeed. Best not to speak of it again for now."

Irene tired near the end of dinner, and allowed Mycroft to see her back to Sherlock's bedroom and a trip to the bathroom, before she once again sank into fever dreams. 

*****

Bloody Holmeses.

Bloody Greg Lestrade.

Bloody Mrs Hudson, probably too.

John Watson did not go to the pub, instead he walked for about an hour before returning to Baker Street.

Bloody curiosity.

He needed to know more now. 

He needed to know everything.

*****

When he made his way back into the Baker Street flat, it was to find Sherlock curled up into himself in his displaced chair, and Mycroft and Lestrade sipping whiskey and eyeing both Sherlock and each other worriedly.

"Hungry, mate?" Lestrade said gently. "Soup's still warm in the kitchen."

John did actually fetch himself a large bowl of soup and some rolls, and ate in silence as the others simply watched. When he'd finished and cleaned up after himself, John poured another drink and sat back down.

"Did you orchestrate my wife's death?"

"No, Dr Watson, I did not. We did not. We were as appalled by what happened as you were."

John stared hard at Mycroft, then nodded. "I'll accept that."

"Thank you."

"Would you have tried to remove her in any other way?"

"Not as long as you were happy with her, and she didn't try to harm Sherlock again."

Again, John thought for a while. "I'll accept that as well. Did you ever think it might be better to tell Sherlock about Eurus?"

Now it was Mycroft's turn to stare at the doctor. "No."

Lestrade wanted to intervene, but knew it really wasn't his place. Instead, he offered Mycroft the support of his fingers threading through the politician's.

"Might have saved you a whole lot of trouble," John said with a mean little smirk.

Mycroft wasn't fazed. 

"Would it. Would it really. If there is one thing you should know about me by now, Dr Watson, it is that I would do anything, anything, to protect my baby brother. Whether that is from the world, our sister, our parents, you, or even myself. I would gladly sacrifice myself if it meant Sherlock could have another day, another hour, in the world he loves so much." Mycroft turned to Lestrade. "I am sorry, Gregory."

Lestrade leaned over and kissed Mycroft's cheek.

"I've always known that, love. It's one of the things that made me fall for you in the first place."

"Still…" Mycroft hesitated. Lestrade chuckled ruefully.

"A lifetime of Sherlock, a decade of me. No comparison. I know it doesn't mean you love me any less, just different. And by the way, I'm all for the no one sacrificing themselves ever."

Mycroft allowed himself a smile.

John suddenly felt a little guilty at being mean to Mycroft.

"So," he retreated, "Anthea? I thought she couldn't stand us, to be honest."

Grateful for the change, Mycroft responded.

"She likes Sherlock, actually. Always has. And she has been very helpful in keeping him calm when he needed us. Mrs Hudson as well."

"How do you mean?"

"As I said, we made an agreement that Sherlock would contact us when he needed us. When alone, he would call immediately, when not alone, he would either finish what he was doing if possible and then call, or would absent himself from his company and call. Mrs Hudson, Irene and Anthea have so far been the only ones aware of this agreement, and have helped in the past. Irene simply argues with him. Mrs Hudson allows him to experiment on tea and biscuits, encouraging him to dunk the biscuits and explain to her why some combinations are better than others. She is quite apt at it, I must admit, not only providing different biscuits and different strengths and temperatures of tea, but different teas as well. Anthea is quite fond of word games and strategy games, and has a multitude of them on her phone and tablet. She has provided Sherlock with an app that has various of these games, and she will access them in random order and make a move, challenging Sherlock to find it and provide a counterstrike. In the meantime, they insult each other by text for being slow. This is of course only allowed within the context of the game, although I am quite certain they play it sometimes when no crisis is looming."

"Oh, I know they do," Lestrade laughed.

"The switching between games and text, thinking up insults, keeps Sherlock's mind occupied. Of course, it has the added advantage that it can be done in silence in my office. Anthea once entertained him like that for four and a half hours while Gregory and I made our way back from Edinburgh when a crisis arose. By the time we returned, the crisis was almost over, but the long time it took us to arrive had caused additional anxiety that took most of the weekend to soothe."

"You talk about him like he's a teething baby," John objected.

"Not at all, Dr Watson. I talk about him like a man in need of human contact, but with no ready access to it. Since your arrival in my brother's life, your presence has helped, providing him with the attention he craves. But even that has not been enough. Many times has Sherlock spent a few days away from here at our house, to regain his equilibrium."

John stared at the still quiet and withdrawn Sherlock.

"That's where you went? I thought you were out sleeping rough with your homeless network!"

"And sometimes he was. Sometimes he wasn't. Don't think to fully understand my brother, Dr Watson, don't ever think that."

When he saw John take another breath to ask further questions, Lestrade cut in.

"Enough for now. I know it isn't that late yet, but Sherlock needs more sleep. A lot has been said tonight, and I'm sure we could all use some time to process."

John glared at him for a second, but then relented. 

"You're probably right. I'm going upstairs."

"Okay, John. We'll check on Irene during the night, so don't worry about that."

With a nod, John stood and went up to his room. Almost as soon as he had left, Sherlock got up and settled between Mycroft and Lestrade on the couch again, accepting the glass of whiskey his brother handed him.

"He seems very angry," Sherlock said after long moments.

"Like Gregory said, John has been told a lot of things today he had no knowledge of. He will be calmer and more accepting in the morning."

"Do you really think so? He didn't seem very pleased with me. In fact, he seems to have started regarding me as a helpless child."

Mycroft silently admitted to himself he'd seen that in John as well, and didn't know how to reassure his brother. But Gregory knew. With a gentle smile, Mycroft watched his lover take his little brother in a loose embrace, and soothe him. As he had thought on many occasions previously, if he had believed in a higher being, he would thank God for Gregory.

"That's not true, kiddo. John's just very confused right now. And yes, he's angry, but he's not angry at you, but at the world. He's angry at what happened to Mary, probably angry with Mary herself too, even though he won't want to admit that. Mostly, I think he's angry with himself, for not seeing all he's been told tonight. He's angry that he believed you were dead, that he believed you would give up like that, especially now that he knows that others didn't. He's angry because he believes he's let you down by not seeing that you needed comfort sometimes too. And you know why he's angry at that? Because he cares for you, because he loves you, and he feels he's not been there when you needed him, that he's disappointed you."

"Do you truly think he cares for me?"

"I know he does, my sweet," Mycroft answered. "All evidence points to it, and if you've ever believed your bothersome big brother about anything, believe me in that."

Sherlock actually managed a small smile.

"It will take time, Sherlock. But I believe this can be a good step forward, a better understanding between you and John. I know you care for him, and I know he cares for you. I'm not saying there's gonna be wedding bells within the year, but…"

Sherlock huffed and jabbed Lestrade in the ribs for that comment.

"If there were to be wedding bells, surely they would be for you and my brother. When are you going to make an honest man out of Mycroft anyway?" Sherlock asked archly.

Lestrade's grimace was clearly faked.

"Make an honest man out of Mycroft? Do you really think such a thing is possible?"

Mycroft blushed a little at the jibe, but all three of them chuckled and the mood was lifted.

"Alright you! Think you can sleep some more?"

Sherlock nodded and downed the last of his whiskey, then went to brush his teeth. Lestrade and Mycroft got up, and Greg quickly pulled out a pillow and blanket and put them on the couch, all of them knowing that was where Sherlock would be sleeping that night. Mycroft waited until Lestrade was finished with his task, then pulled the man to him and looked into his eyes.

"I love you deeply, Gregory. Please never doubt that."

Slightly taken aback by the sentiment, not something he received from Mycroft very often, Lestrade stared back. Then his gaze softened and he lightly kissed Mycroft's lips.

"No doubts. I love you too."

By the time Sherlock returned from the bathroom, Mycroft was settled in Sherlock's chair with a book, and Lestrade in John's chair, watching telly with the sound down low. They knew from long experience that this wouldn't bother Sherlock's rest, in fact, might even help him, knowing that his brother and Greg were there with him. And indeed, within moments of rolling himself into the blanket on the couch, the consulting detective was soundly asleep.

*****

After a rather restless night in which the revelations of the previous day kept swirling through his mind, John found himself wide awake at six the next morning. His feelings were a complete jumble, and he wasn't sure he could take any more surprises. He didn't know how to feel about having missed so much that was going on around him, and he blamed the fog that had settled on his mind after Sherlock's fall, then meeting Mary and everything that brought with it. He couldn't believe he hadn't seen through the Holmes brothers' sniping to grasp the depth of affection underneath, or that he hadn't realized that his friend Greg not only apparently played for both teams, but had been in a relationship for as long as he'd known him, with Mycroft no less. 

He honestly didn't know whether he was angry or disappointed, and if either of those emotions, exactly with whom? With Sherlock? With Mycroft and Greg? With himself? Mostly, he was just confused. 

But one thing he did know. He was a doctor, and he had a patient in the house. Since he was awake, he should go check on Irene. He quietly made his way downstairs.

Ready for them or not, it seemed more surprises were in store for him. When he opened the door as gently and quietly as possible, he found Lestrade awake and reading a book in the soft light of one of the table lamps. He was lying on his back on the camping bed on the side closest to the door, and beside him, a disheveled Sherlock was snuggled up against him, an arm and a leg thrown over Lestrade, in deep sleep. Behind Sherlock, Mycroft was still resting, holding his little brother close. Lestrade smiled at him and put down his book.

"Morning, John."

"Hey."

"You alright, mate?"

"I… don't know."

Lestrade nodded.

"You going to check on Irene? I looked in on her about two hours ago. She seems better."

"Good, good. I'll just… go check on her."

Lestrade went back to his book.

Irene was indeed doing much better, barely had a temperature anymore, and was resting calmly. When John returned to the living room, he hesitated for a moment, then sat down in his chair. Lestrade put down his book again and looked him over.

"You want to talk about it, mate?"

"I wouldn't know what to say, honestly."

"Understandable."

Lestrade saw John looking intently at Sherlock and smiled a little.

"Yeah. Well, last night was a bit stressful, as I'm sure you can imagine. He sleeps better…"

"It's okay, Greg."

"Is it, though? You've not seen this before. Does it bother you?"

"Does it bother you?"

Lestrade smiled wider.

"Not in the least. As I said, he's like my little brother. I never had one, but always imagined what it would be like. Imagined myself looking out for my kid brother, teaching him stuff, taking care of him. I never did think I would be doing it like this when I was near fifty years old, but I like taking care of people. And if this is what helps, I'm only too happy to be the one that can provide it."

"It's quite different from how you normally take care of people. I mean, I've always known you were a caregiver, Greg, but..."

"It takes different care for different kinds. And let's be honest, the Holmes boys are definitely different." Greg chuckled.

"Cease your infernal prattling, Gregory," Mycroft grumbled sleepily. "After all the trouble Anthea went through to arrange our days off, surely you can respect that it is far too early for you to disturb my precious rest."

Lestrade laughed quietly, and in a deft move removed himself from under Sherlock. He stood and leaned over to kiss Mycroft's scalp.

"Go back to sleep, My."

Mycroft huffed and pulled Sherlock a little closer to him, then settled back into slumber.

Lestrade gestured John into the kitchen and closed the sliding doors to obscure the noise as he set the kettle to boil. He prepared two mugs of tea, and then gestured John to follow him. John was almost surprised to have Lestrade lead him back to his own bedroom. Lestrade sat at the foot of the bed, leaning against the frame, and John settled against the headboard. They sipped their tea slowly, and Lestrade waited a while until he saw John calm.

"Any more questions?"

John looked a little lost.

"Sherlock went to sleep on the couch almost as soon as you went to your room last night. I watched telly and Mycroft read. I checked in on Irene again, then we went to bed too. I checked in on her twice more, and the second time I did, when I came back into the living room, Sherlock was awake and fidgety. He crawled into bed with Mycroft, and then I got in as well. He fell asleep again almost immediately."

"Is that a regular thing?"

"When it becomes too much? Yes."

"And do you… did you ever…?"

"With Sherlock? God no!" Lestrade did his very best not to be affronted by the question, since he could kind of understand where it was coming from. He looked at John carefully for long moments.

"Their minds never shut down, John. You and I, and pretty much everyone else, we go to sleep and our minds get rest. Theirs don't. You heard Mycroft just now. Did he sound like he was asleep? No. But I promise you he was. Can you form sentences like that when you're asleep? I know I can't. They never shut down."

John contemplated that for a while, then nodded.

"The way I look at it, when my mind is quiet, it can absorb what their minds are thinking. When I'm restless because of a case or whatever, Mycroft doesn't rest either. But it's not just anyone who can do that for them. They have to know they're safe, that they won't be judged. Sherlock's lashed out at me with his deductions about me, sure. Mycroft has too. But in the end, they both realized that I wasn't hiding it from them, I just wasn't talking about it. It was not some secret I was keeping to try and manipulate them with, it was just something private that I didn't want anyone to know, not just them. I'm an honest man, John, and especially after what happened with my wife, I can't do secrets like that with people I care about."

"You've kept quite a bit secret from me."

"Only those secrets that weren't mine to tell. I've known from very early on that they can both read me like an open book, and I haven't minded. This is who I am, take it or leave it. Would I have liked to keep some things to myself? Sure. Would I like to be able to read them the same way? I don't even know. I think having a mind like theirs is scary sometimes, John. They've certainly taken a beating for it more than once when younger. Can you really blame them for hiding that? But most importantly, no judging. No blaming them for being smarter, cleverer, more observant, whatever you want to call it. They didn't ask for it, and I can't blame them for it. I don't want to. I appreciate their gift for what it is, and when it becomes too much, I want to help them settle it."

They both drew from their tea again.

"You've done the same, in a way, for Sherlock."

John's eyes widened in surprise, and Lestrade chuckled.

"Sherlock's told us many times how you called him brilliant and admired him that first night you came with him to my crime scene. Why do you think he was so pleased? He told you that was not the reaction he normally got, and he wasn't kidding. It's one of his favorite memories of you."

Lestrade let that sink in for a moment.

"But he's not a kid, John. Just because he sometimes needs a hug, or wants to listen to Mycroft telling him a story, or crawls into our bed in the middle of the night, doesn't make him a kid. He's a grown man with a brilliant mind that he just can't shut down. He needs a distraction every now and then. And from what you've been told, you should realize that the last time he truly felt calm and settled and loved, was when he was a boy with a big brother who would do anything for him, take him in and read to him, teach him and care for him."

John stared at Lestrade for a long time before he finally nodded. Greg got up and took John's empty mug.

"Go take a shower, then come help me with breakfast. I think Irene's doing better, and so is Sherlock. Let's give them some more TLC, eh? Before we unleash them unto the world again."

*****

John stayed on his bed, thinking, for quite some time after Lestrade had left. By the time he was showered and dressed and made it down for breakfast, Sherlock and Mycroft were already up and dressed as well, and all three of them were in the middle of preparing breakfast. John, feeling he should contribute but unsure what he could do, went back into doctor mode and decided to check on Irene again. When he knocked on the half open bedroom door and went in, she just returned from the bathroom.

"And how is the patient today?"

"Feeling much better, Dr Watson. Thank you."

He quickly checked her over, and was pleased with her progress. She still was a bit pale and looked tired, but her temperature was gone, and she claimed to be hungry, which were all good signs. He helped her back to the kitchen and sat her down, and just then, Mycroft appeared with Mrs Hudson, still in a dressing gown and with curlers in her hair, Mycroft having succeeded in persuading the landlady to join them.

After breakfast, John helped Lestrade clean up, and Irene called Kate. She had been in contact with her girlfriend, of course, but now Irene was ready to return home. Just as they were making plans, there was a knock on the door and Anthea entered. 

"Good morning, Sir."

"Good morning, my dear. Anything urgent?"

"Nothing, Sir. I just came to see how everyone was faring this morning."

"We are all well. It seems our patient is much better this morning too, and eager to return to her home to recuperate further."

Anthea took a sharp look at Irene, who smiled at her.

"Indeed, Sir. Perhaps I could arrange transportation?"

"I would be most pleased if you would accompany Ms Adler to her residence to ensure she arrives safely and well, my dear. And perhaps arrange another car to have us transferred to home? I do not wish to spend another night on that camping bed if I can help it, comfortable though it is, dear."

There were various smiles at that, and Anthea was already typing away on her phone.

Sherlock looked a little lost. Lestrade noticed, and he wasn't the only one.

"Sherlock?" he asked, drying the last of the skillets he'd used to make breakfast. "Since Mrs Hudson will be off to visit her sister for a few days, and Mycroft is sure to have several reports to read from the hours he missed work yesterday, would you care to keep me company?"

"Are you going to the Yard? Is there a case?" But they could all tell it wasn't Sherlock's usual enthusiasm speaking there.

"Nah," Lestrade said. "I've got the day and the weekend off, don't you know? I thought you could come back to the house with us, and explain why I can't have that experiment of yours that burned a hole in the table last time cleaned up and thrown away. And maybe you could show it to John?"

Sherlock turned wide eyes to John and pleaded. "Please John, you have to come! It was of vital importance to a case, and Gavin can't possibly understand it! He's threatening to throw it away! I need you to persuade him to leave it as it is!"

It was obviously a ruse, and everyone knew it. Just as everyone, including John now, knew that Sherlock wanted to go with Mycroft and Greg and why, they also knew that Sherlock's obvious use of the wrong first name for Lestrade meant that he was doing better. John nodded.

"Well, we can't have major scientific breakthroughs thrown away simply because they burnt a hole in a table, now can we. I feel I must accompany you to safeguard the progression of science!"

Sherlock turned a pleased smirk towards Lestrade, who pretended to be put out.

"Science, he says! That was a perfectly good table!"

And they all ignored the small smile gracing the detective inspector's lips as he turned to put away the clean skillet.

*****

Some two hours later, Mrs Hudson had been sent to the station in one of Mycroft's cars to go visit her sister, Anthea had escorted a still tired Irene into another car to take her home, two men had appeared to remove the camping bed and clean the fridge of the remaining groceries to have them taken back to Mycroft's house, and Mycroft, Lestrade, Sherlock and John were in the back of yet another car, being transported to the house.

John wondered if he should use capitalization. The House. He'd seen very little of it and hadn't really paid attention that time he and Sherlock broke in to play that - now he knew - rather nasty prank on Mycroft. But in light of recent revelations, he felt differently about the place. It had seemed, what little had registered with him at the time, like a rather ostentatious and overdone place, something he thought fitting for the pompous Mycroft. But now… Mycroft didn't seem so pompous anymore, and it was apparently Greg's home too, and Sherlock stayed there regularly. Hence, The House. A place of importance, a place he had never been invited to. And he was now apparently to spend quite some time in it, if the amount of clothes Sherlock had urged him to pack was any indication.

Looking around at his fellow occupants of the back of the car, John still didn't know what to think. Mycroft and Sherlock were both engrossed in their phones. Lestrade sat calm and relaxed, looking at the passing scenery, his hand resting on Mycroft's thigh, not hiding it. Every now and then, Mycroft would release one hand from his phone, and gently trace his fingers over Greg's hand, which always caused a small smile on the detective inspector's face. How had John missed all this?

He thought back to that morning, to Greg explaining that if his mind was calm, Mycroft's could be too. He thought it might work the other way around as well, watching them exchange tiny touches. Perhaps Mycroft calmed Greg, and in return, Greg calmed Mycroft. He wondered if he might be able to do the same for Sherlock.

Before too long, they arrived at The House. It looked much different in daylight. The Mansion maybe would be more appropriate, John thought. As soon as the car halted in front of the main door, said door opened to reveal an honest to God butler. The man opened the door to the car and greeted Mycroft and Greg with obvious pleasure. Sherlock received a distinctly cooler response.

"No shenanigans, I promise, Austin," Sherlock said earnestly.

"Very well, Mr Sherlock. Welcome back, Sir."

"Austin, this is Dr Watson. He shall be staying with us as well. Please arrange the blue room for his stay."

"Of course, Sir," Austin answered Mycroft as Lestrade whispered in John's ear: "Sherlock chose the moment of your intrusion perfectly. I wasn't here and Austin wasn't. The man still hasn't forgiven himself for letting Mycroft down like that."

As John was trying to recover from that little piece of information, and the fact that apparently his plain old friend Greg was used to having a frigging butler!, a footman retrieved his bags from the trunk and brought them into the house. 

The entrance and hallway he remembered from their previous illicit visit. The footman disappeared up the staircase with his bags, and Sherlock dragged John along to follow. Behind and below them, he could hear Mycroft quietly speaking with Austin before he and Lestrade followed them up as well. Sherlock brought John to parts of the house he hadn't seen during their intrusion - to be honest, he hadn't seen very much of it then - and soon they found themselves in an upstairs hallway with various doors spaced widely apart. One of the first doors was open, and glancing in as Sherlock dragged him along, John saw the footman already unpacking his bags in what did indeed appear to be a very blue room. Blue walls, blue drapes, blue bedsheets. But before he could get more than a glance, Sherlock pulled him towards another door, threw it open and stepped in, inhaling in pleasure.

"This is my room, John."

As if there could have been any doubt. It was much more a suite than a room, a space large enough to cover their entire first floor at 221B, and the walls were lined with bookcases, various tables covered in experiments, and through an open door on the other side of the suite John saw rows and rows of Sherlock's wardrobe in what was obviously a walk in closet. Sherlock threw himself onto the bed and stretched out luxuriously. John was standing there, just starting to wonder what to do, when he heard Mycroft and Greg in the hallway.

"I'll just have a sandwich, Austin," Lestrade said.

"You most certainly will not, Gregory! Despite the lovely breakfast, you need vitamins and hearty food to counteract any effects of encountering that vicious strain of flu. I will not have you succumb to it!" Mycroft protested.

"I'm afraid I agree with Mr Holmes, Sir, and so does Mrs Weaver. She and Amanda are already preparing lunch. I suggest you work up an appetite."

Greg sighed and then chuckled.

"That's never a problem when Mrs Weaver and Amanda are cooking, Austin."

"Are you saying you prefer their cooking to mine, Gregory?"

Lestrade sighed again.

"I'm never going to get out of this gracefully, am I?"

Austin could be heard to chuckle, something John found astounding considering the man's profession and austere manners.

"I would give up now, Greg, if I were you," John heard the butler say just before the door to Sherlock's room swung open further and Austin appeared in the doorway. "Ah, Dr Watson, here you are. Please allow me to show you to your room." At the man's beckoning gesture, John stepped out into the hallway. Looking around, he saw Mycroft and Lestrade through an open door at the end of the hall, next to Sherlock's room, and saw Mycroft shucking his jacket and Lestrade kicking off his shoes. Then he followed Austin back to the blue room, where the footman was just finishing putting away John's things. After a nod of approval from Austin, the footman took his leave. 

"I trust these will be acceptable accommodations for you, Dr Watson."

Then he gave John what could only be described as a small tour, showing him were his clothes had been stashed away, and the en suite bathroom.

"Might I suggest you make yourself comfortable, Sir? There are slippers here in your size, and may I take your jacket?"

A bit overwhelmed, John let the man take his jacket off his shoulders and put it in one of the wardrobes, while John kicked off his shoes as he had seen Lestrade do and stepped into the slippers Austin had indicated.

"I shall leave you to it, Sir. If you require anything, please feel free to press this button, and someone will be up to tend to you."

With that, Austin disappeared, and left John bewildered and curious. Before he could get his mind together though, there was a polite knock on his doorjamb. He turned to find Mycroft smiling at him. 

"Is everything alright, Dr Watson?"

John let his eyes wander over the man for a moment, quickly assessing the difference. Mycroft had shed not only his jacket, but his waistcoat and tie as well. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and his feet stuffed into comfortable slippers. John nodded.

"Yeah, fine, yeah, thanks."

"Good. I propose we adjourn to the kitchen. Luncheon should be served momentarily."

When John followed Mycroft out of the room, Lestrade was herding Sherlock out of his suite. They had both changed as well. Sherlock was in one of his purple shirts, black slacks and slippers, while Lestrade was in a fresh t-shirt and jeans and stockinged feet. Deciding to just go along for now, John followed the three of them downstairs, trying to form a map of the house in his mind as he was led to the kitchen.

*****

John was just starting to realize that getting a clear picture of the layout of the house was going to take an actual tour when they arrived in the kitchen. It was a large, cheerily bright space, very modern, especially in comparison with the rest of the house. A woman in her late forties, dressed in a quite stern black dress and her hair in a tight bun, and a girl in maybe her early twenties in jeans and a blouse, were busily chopping and stirring at several things on the long countertop along one wall. In the middle of the space was a large kitchen island with chairs on one side, and it was obvious to John that this space was used very often. It felt lived in.

As soon as the four men entered the kitchen, the women turned and welcomed them with warm, affectionate smiles. It was clear they had a deep respect and affection for Mycroft as they welcomed him back home, and a distinct liking for Sherlock, but it was Lestrade who walked over and kissed both women on the cheek.

"Hi Amanda! Hello Janet!"

Their eyes and smiles lit up even further, and the older woman gently patted Lestrade on the hip, while the girl blushed a little.

"Hello Greg. We're so glad to have you back home," the woman said.

"I've only been gone a day!" Lestrade chuckled.

"A day too long! Have you and Mr Holmes eaten during your absence?"

"Of course we have! I wouldn't dare return Mycroft to you starved and exhausted."

The woman smiled again, and Lestrade gently put an arm around her shoulders.

"Janet, Amanda, this is Dr John Watson. John, Mrs Weaver and her daughter Amanda," Lestrade introduced them.

"Welcome, Dr Watson," Mrs Weaver greeted him, then she and her daughter turned back to their cooking while Lestrade raided the fridge for drinks.

"You must forgive Gregory for his informality, Dr Watson," Mycroft sighed, as if John had any problems with addressing people by their first names. "I'm afraid he has quite corrupted Mrs Weaver and Ms Weaver, and even Austin sometimes forgets decorum around Gregory." John quickly flashed back to the butler chuckling and calling Lestrade 'Greg'. Lestrade laughed.

"You know me, mate, I'm a simple man. If I'm gonna live in the same house as someone, I'll be damned if I'm gonna call them by their last names, or let them call me 'Sir'."

Mrs Weaver gave him an indulgent smile, and her daughter blushed again. John thought she must have a crush on the handsome policeman, but everyone was kind enough to ignore it. When he looked to Mycroft again, he saw a similar indulgent smile on the man's face, and again he realized something. Mycroft liked it. He liked that Greg had broken through the strict divide between master and servant, had brought that informality he was seemingly protesting into his house. John would bet a year's salary that ever since Lestrade had come to live with Mycroft and broken down those barriers, Mycroft had relaxed around his staff. He suddenly had no doubt that while Mrs Weaver and Austin were first and foremost loyal to Mycroft, it was Greg who had loosened them up enough to allow the affection between them, both ways, to come to the fore.

When Lestrade emerged from the refrigerator with beers in hand, Mrs Weaver gently chided him.

"No, no, Greg! No beer. I've laid in a particularly pleasing white wine that will complement lunch, as soon as Anthea informed us that you had the rest of the day off. Please be so kind to pour that."

With a shrug, Lestrade put back the beers and pulled out the wine, pouring for all four of them. Amanda put a few small plates of appetizers in front of them on the kitchen island and smiled at Sherlock.

"Any interesting cases or experiments since we've last seen you, Mr Sherlock?"

The consulting detective seemed to perk up a little, and Mycroft smiled at the girl gratefully.

"A few. Did you read John's blog about the Case of the Vanishing Ventriloquist?" Amanda nodded, temporarily leaving her mother to the cooking to focus on Sherlock. "Well, the blog was of course woefully incomplete! Let me tell you what really happened…"

And with that, Sherlock launched into a fabulous retelling of the tale, dragging John into the dialogue, and having the girl and her mother, and even Mycroft and Lestrade - who already knew all the details - chuckling at his wild adventures. At some point during the tale, Mrs Weaver served lunch and pressed a button, and shortly thereafter Austin, two footmen and two maids came into the kitchen, sitting down and accepting plates and glasses of wine which Lestrade poured for them, and they all listened to Sherlock and John recounting their recent cases, laughing and lauding the consulting detective while they ate. John once again had a quick flash of something in his mind, a picture of Mycroft, sitting alone in some dining room somewhere in this house, while his staff sat down to a pleasant lunch together here in this homey kitchen, and couldn't help but feel sorry for the man, and then pleased that he had found this, found Greg. Because there was no doubt in his mind that it was Lestrade who had brought about this family feeling, master and servants sharing a meal, and maybe even the closeness that was obvious between Mycroft and Sherlock, here even more so than the previous day at 221B. 

*****

When lunch was finished and everyone else returned to their duties, Sherlock looked almost shyly at John.

"Would you like a tour?"

"Sure."

And for the next hour and a half, John followed Sherlock around the house and grounds, getting explanations for some things and snide comments for others, such as 'That's Mycroft's office. If you try to go in there, not even I could solve your disappearance.' Or 'That's Mycroft's gym. Just… don't ever go in there', said with a dramatic shudder. 

When the tour came to an end and they were making their way through the garden back to the house, Sherlock slowed and finally came to a full stop. John turned to face him.

"John, I…" Sherlock didn't seem to know how to continue.

"It's alright, Sherlock. Like I told you a long time ago, it's all fine."

Sherlock fidgeted, and John spotted a conveniently placed garden bench, and dragged his friend over to it and sat down.

"I don't understand a lot of what I've seen in the last two days, not yet. But I'm not angry, not at you. I need you to know that." 

Sherlock nodded.

"I also had a good talk with Greg this morning."

Sherlock looked up at him expectantly.

"He explained some things. I need to process. But, Sherlock, like I said, I'm not angry at you. I'm confused, although a little less confused than yesterday, and it's going to take me some time to…"

"Thank you, John," Sherlock interrupted and got up, striding towards the house. John sighed and followed. 

Inside, they found Lestrade and Mycroft in one of the living rooms, Mycroft reading reports and Greg watching a footy match on telly, their feet up on the coffee table as they shared a couch. One look at his little brother and Mycroft got up, putting aside his files. Lestrade held out his arm to Sherlock and simply said: "Come here, kiddo."

As Sherlock practically launched himself at the detective inspector, hiding himself in the man's embrace, Mycroft motioned for John to follow him. John was led to Mycroft's office, and when the older man noticed the doctor's apprehension, he laughed. "Has Sherlock been telling tales again? On my invitation, you are quite welcome into this room, Dr Watson. No imminent disappearances, I assure you."

Chuckling a little uncomfortably, John followed Mycroft inside, and accepted a seat and a glass of whiskey.

"Something has unsettled my brother. I take it you and he talked?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, not really? What?"

Mycroft smiled at the doctor's confusion.

"I could never hope to explain things about my little brother as well as my dear Gregory can, but how about we play a little game of chess?" Mycroft gestured at the board set up on a little table between two comfortable chairs. "Every time you take one of my pieces, you ask me a question and I shall answer truthfully, unless it involves state secrets. Every time I take one of yours, I ask a question, and you do me the same courtesy."

With Mycroft's brain for strategy and prowess in the game, it was no surprise to either of them that Mycroft got to ask the majority of the questions.

"What is confusing you most at this time, Dr Watson?"

"I don't know. Sherlock's behavior, with both you and Greg? Or, for that matter, you and Greg?"

"I believe both matters were already explained to you. Gregory has been inestimable to both myself and my brother for some years now. It's a wonder the poor man hasn't buckled under the pressure of having to deal daily with not one, but two of us."

"You have to admit, Sherlock crawling into your bed? It's kind of unsettling."

"Ah. So that's what's bothering you most. I assure you, nothing untoward has ever happened, nor will it. Why does it bother you so much, Dr Watson?"

"It doesn't! I mean, I guess it's… well, it's unexpected?"

"Is that a question or a statement?"

"Both?"

"Very well. Unexpected, maybe, but considering the circumstances, surely not unwarranted. Caring may not be an advantage, Dr Watson, but that doesn't mean either of us has ever been able to truly avoid it."

The game and the Q&A continued for almost an hour, before there was a knock on the door. At Mycroft's imperious 'come!', the door opened and Lestrade appeared. 

"Sally called. I have to go in for a few hours, sorry. Sherlock's taking a nap on the couch."

"Thank you, Gregory. No worries. Will you be alright to drive? You did have wine with lunch."

"I asked Stephen to bring round one of the cars, I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. Please be safe, love. And be home as quickly as you can."

Lestrade smiled.

"I will. It's just some paperwork. Thanks, My. I'll be back soon."

As Lestrade left to change into a suit and depart to the bureau, Mycroft eyed the doctor.

"Have you any further questions for me at this time?"

"No. No, I guess I don't. Let's go see to Sherlock, yeah?"

Mycroft smiled his approval.

*****

Sherlock was still lounging on the couch he had retreated to when Lestrade had invited him, no longer asleep, but dozing lightly as he kept one eye on the telly. Not that John thought the consulting detective was really interested in what was on display there. 

"Where's Graham?"

"Gregory has had to go into the office for a while. He should be back shortly, my sweet."

Sherlock was distinctly displeased by that.

"I thought he had the day off."

"It seems some paperwork has recalled him to his duties. No doubt an aftereffect of your latest case, brother mine."

Sherlock huffed, and wouldn't let either of them near, so Mycroft and John both settled into the armchairs to the side of the couch while Sherlock pouted. Mycroft returned to his reports, and John simply sat and thought. It must have been over an hour later when Mrs Weaver appeared with tea and biscuits, and quietly conferred with Mycroft about dinner and Lestrade's expected return. John let it rumble over him, and just continued to think, drinking his tea and dunking his biscuit almost automatically.

Things were even more different than he'd already thought. He'd called Greg a caregiver that morning, and had always thought himself to be one too. But Greg seemed to have taken an entire household and turned them into a family. Not just soften up Mycroft and gain some semblance of control over Sherlock, but a butler and a housekeeper or cook or whatever Mrs Weaver was, and the rest of the staff, and brought them so much closer to their cold employer that they felt comfortable on both sides to sit and share lunch in the warm, cheery kitchen. John tried to ignore the pang of guilt and jealousy he felt every time he saw Sherlock easily surrender to Greg, whether it was Greg's tone forcing him to eat or sleep, or the willingness to let the copper soothe him physically. John had always thought, from the stories, that he was the one who settled Sherlock, and to be confronted so unequivocally with the reality of Greg being the one to actually do it, and not just for Sherlock but for Mycroft as well, it shook his confidence.

How well had he really known Greg all these years? He'd thought they were friends. Moaning and complaining about the Holmes brothers on regular nights down the pub, John had never suspected that Greg was faking it. Or was he? Surely all that care would wear on Greg, so maybe he really did need a night or two a month to complain and blow off steam. But he seemed so content when Sherlock needed him, or when Mycroft approached him and touched him, that John couldn't really believe that. So, John had established that he wasn't really angry at Sherlock, and he meant it. And he wasn't really angry at Mycroft either, seeing and having understood that the man would indeed do anything and everything for his little brother, even to the detriment of his own happiness. So maybe he was angry with Greg? All of this was very confusing, and Sherlock pouting on the couch because of Greg's absence wasn't helping. 

But was that really fair? John had always considered Mycroft a cold-hearted secretive bastard, but after the events at Sherrinford, and especially now after the past day, he was already starting to change that perception, already separating the front Mycroft put up for work from this very different man he appeared to be in private, a loving big brother to Sherlock. He had no doubt that Mycroft's statement about doing anything for his little brother was true, and even in John's most unkind thoughts about Mycroft, that was one thing he had never doubted. And John meant it when he said that he wasn't angry at Sherlock, even though Sherlock had abandoned him for two years, and then failed to save Mary. Yes, there was still anger at that, but it wasn't at Sherlock. So was John now saying that he was angry at Lestrade? For what? For keeping secrets? Sherlock and Mycroft were equally guilty of that, and probably much more so. So what then? For seeing how much the Holmes brothers depended on him, how much he cared for them? Especially Sherlock? But was that really anger? Or was it jealousy? 

For just a second, John deeply missed Mary in a way he hadn't in a while. She would have laughed at him, and teased him, and then told him to suck it up and be honest with himself.

Yes. He was angry. At himself. 

*****

When Greg returned some two and a half hours later, he found a silent living room. Mycroft was still scrolling through reports and e-mails on his laptop, Sherlock was sulking on the couch, and John had seemed to sink into a depressed state of fugue. 

"Well, this is a cheery welcome home for a weary old copper!" he exclaimed. 

Mycroft immediately put his laptop aside to focus on his lover, beckoning him in for a kiss on the cheek. 

"How did it go, dear? No trouble, I hope?"

"No, just some paperwork, like I said. In and out and no problems."

Lestrade gratefully sank into another armchair next to Mycroft, and then looked over at Sherlock.

"So what are you pouting about then?"

Sherlock huffed, rolled over onto his back and crossed his arms over his chest, staring up at the ceiling.

"You said you had the day off. You said you wanted my company. You said you would be there for me."

"I did and I was, for as long as I could. And then I had to leave for a little bit so I wouldn't get fired, which would mean you would have no more access to cases. Besides, Mycroft was here the whole time. And now I'm back. So what are you sulking about?"

Sherlock just huffed again, and closed his eyes. Mycroft and Lestrade shared a look.

"John? How are you doing, mate?"

And John looked into those earnest brown eyes, saw his friend, and knew he wasn't angry at him at all. Jealous, yes, angry, no. 

"Still confused, I guess, Greg. And all this thinking isn't making it any better."

"Perhaps I can offer you a distraction, John," Mycroft said. "If you'll come with me, please?"

Surprised and curious, John followed Mycroft through the house, until they ended up at the gym Sherlock had warned him about. Mycroft again let show a small smile. "Another of Sherlock's warnings, I see. Please pay no attention. Follow me."

The gym held a variety of equipment, but Mycroft brought him over to a punching bag in the corner. 

"I myself usually utilize the treadmill when my thoughts are spinning, but Gregory prefers this method. I think perhaps it would work for you as well. You will find gloves in here, and appropriate clothing and a shower for after in that room. Please feel free to take your time and make use of anything in here that might take your fancy."

With that, Mycroft left him alone and closed the door behind him. John stood for long moments, then decided it might actually not be a bad idea. It had been a long time since he'd worked with a punching bag, but he remembered he'd always found it very satisfying. It was worth a try at least. When he went into the changing room Mycroft had indicated, he found one wall held several shelves filled with t-shirts, shorts, sweats and towels, and hooks for hanging his regular clothes, while the other side held four separate shower cubicles. Then he recognized the smell, and curiously opened the door on the other side of the room to peek in. It revealed what the smell had indicated, a rather large indoor pool, with a sauna and a large jacuzzi to one side. John shook his head, laughing a little. He suddenly understood why Sherlock had warned him never to come in here. The consulting detective had obviously found his brother and Lestrade in here doing things that Sherlock wouldn't want to see. Honestly, John wouldn't mind trying if he could get Sherlock to do some of those things with John in here. Then he froze at that thought, grimaced, and shook his head again. As if he wasn't already confused enough.

John quickly changed and picked some gloves, and within minutes he was pounding his anger and confusion into the punching bag. As he'd remembered, it was very satisfying indeed. With every punch he threw, his mind cleared a little further, and by the time his arms were too tired to really make an impact, his mind was empty. Releasing himself from the gloves, he went over to the refrigerator he'd spotted, and pulled out a bottle of water, drinking it down thirstily. He cooled down a little, doing some exercises to loosen his muscles, and then finally went to shower and change again. When he was ready, he realized he'd spent more than an hour in the gym, and he felt better than he had in a long time.

*****

After leaving John in the gym, Mycroft took the opportunity to retreat to his office and check in with Anthea. Then he made a few calls. He knew Gregory wouldn't mind, in fact, he knew Gregory had some business with Sherlock. His little brother had been petulant and accusatory towards Gregory when he returned, and while that might have been understandable in a child, as they had stressed to John, Sherlock was not actually a child. And Mycroft knew that Gregory would not accept such behavior from Sherlock, no matter how much he cared for him. Yes, they had both promised to be there for Sherlock, but his little brother's rational mind knew that Gregory's departure could not be helped, and as he had pointed out, Mycroft had still been there. But Sherlock hadn't wanted Mycroft for some reason. The elder Holmes wondered what had caused that. It had been quite a while since Sherlock had needed them in this way. Perhaps it had been overdue? The stress of Irene Adler's illness? Sherlock never dealt well with such things, where he felt helpless, with nothing or no one for him to fight or outsmart. Perhaps it was John's presence? Was it too much? Had they miscalculated how John's knowing about this side of Sherlock would affect his baby brother? Mycroft wasn't sure. 

When he emerged from his office, it was to see a freshly showered John Watson coming from the direction of the gym. The man certainly looked better, more at peace, and Mycroft waited for John to catch up to him. Before he could say anything though, John stood in front of him and placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder.

"Mycroft, I… Thank you, that was exactly what I needed. Thank you."

Slightly taken aback, not so much by the words but by the tone and the grateful look on the doctor's face, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"You are most welcome, John. Please feel free to use the facilities any time you like."

John gave him a smile, and they made their way back to the living room where they'd left Lestrade and Sherlock. The door was open, and some instinct made Mycroft grasp John's arm and halt him from going in. Instead, they watched and listened.

Lestrade was still seated in his chair, and Sherlock was pacing the room and fidgeting, refusing to look at the other man, until suddenly, he came to a stop and stood in front of Lestrade. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Greg, I… I apologize. That was unfair of me. I'm sorry."

The tall consulting detective looked and sounded every inch the little boy he wasn't anymore. Lestrade gave him an assessing look.

"You know why I had to leave, right?"

"I do."

"And you know it couldn't be helped?"

"I do."

"And I take it you sulked the entire time? Worrying your brother? And John?"

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. Lestrade's gaze softened, and he leaned back in his chair. Sherlock took his chance and fell to his knees between the DI's legs, wrapping his arms around the man's waist and pressing his ear to Lestrade's chest. Greg started running his fingers softly through the chocolate curls now within his reach.

"What's got you so upset, kiddo? What's making your mind act out like this?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just held on tighter.

"Is it John? Are you worried about how John is taking all this?"

Just the tiniest of nods was his answer.

"Oh, kiddo. I told you, there's no need to worry about that. John's a good man. He cares for you. He's put up with a lot from you and hasn't given up on you yet. He won't. He just needs a little time. You know that goldfish like me and John…" Sherlock looked up sharply, then gave a little smile as he saw Lestrade's grin, and returned to his comfortable spot against Greg's chest "… need a little bit longer than you and your brother to think things through."

"You and John are not goldfish. I still haven't classified your exact species, but you are not goldfish."

"Well, thanks for that, I think. But Sherlock," now Lestrade's voice became a little sterner again, "this was not acceptable behavior. You've a right to be upset, but you promised that if that happened, you'd talk about it, not act like a petulant four year old. Worrying your brother like that, that's not good."

"I'm sorry, Greg."

"I know you are. That doesn't make it quite alright, but it's a start."

"I'll apologize to My as well."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate that."

They sat like that in silence for a few moments, and then Mycroft pulled John quietly back into the hallway a few steps, before starting to talk.

"So, did you enjoy the facilities in the gym, John?"

Catching on and nodding, John answered.

"I did, thank you. I might like to make use of it again."

"As I said, you're always welcome to, John."

They entered the living room, where Lestrade looked up at them with a smirk, clearly knowing full well they'd been listening. Sherlock would then obviously also know, but his mind was occupied. He'd moved away from Lestrade and stood at the window. 

"I apologize for my absence, Gregory," Mycroft said as he sat down in his chair again, "I took the opportunity to make some calls."

"Everything okay?"

"Anthea has everything in hand as always."

"That woman is amazing."

"You are not contemplating leaving me for her, are you, Gregory?"

"Nah. She scares me."

"And I do not?"

"I've never been scared of you, love."

"That's very good to hear, dearest."

Sherlock retreated from the window to the drinks cabinet and poured them each a healthy snifter of brandy. He handed them out, and when he reached his brother, he looked at Mycroft,

"I'm sorry for my behavior this afternoon, My."

"Thank you. I was worried, my sweet."

"I didn't mean to worry you, My."

"I know. Still…"

"I know. You worry about me, constantly."

"Indeed I do. Shall we put any unpleasantness behind us and focus on more enjoyable efforts?"

"Such as?"

"I believe we may have time for a game before dinner. Your choice, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled and strode over to another cabinet, opening it to reveal a large quantity of board games. Lestrade grinned.

"While you choose and set up, I'll go change into something more comfortable."

*****

When Lestrade returned a few minutes later, back into his jeans and t-shirt he'd changed out of for his trip to the Yard, Sherlock had set up a game of Snakes and Ladders. John had chuckled when he'd let his eyes roam over the contents of the games cabinet. There were strategy games, games of pure chance, cards and even puzzles in there. He'd always figured the Holmes brothers for chess, or backgammon, or something like that, so when he'd spotted Pictionary and Life, he couldn't help but once again reframe what he'd thought he knew about the two men.

Greg and Sherlock were positively gleeful whenever they managed to get ahead, and the British Government pouted admirably every time he hit a snake. John had to admit, it was decidedly weird, but this was one of the most fun things he'd done in a long time. Sherlock and Mycroft sniped at each other's luck or mishaps, but it was done with affection, and Lestrade was very competitive. When Mrs Weaver came to inform them dinner would be served in fifteen minutes, her eyes twinkled when she saw what they were doing.

Dinner was a languid affair, served to the four of them in a dining room not quite as austere as he had pictured Mycroft in during lunch. Mrs Weaver and Amanda served a four course meal, each course more delicious than the previous one, and John started to understand the need for a private gym in the house. If this was the kind of food Mycroft and Greg were served on a regular basis, they'd need to work out to keep the pounds off. Sherlock made not a single comment about Mycroft's weight, not even when the British Government happily dug into his dessert, which was heavy with cream and sugar.

After coffee and cognac, and indulging in a single cigarette each for Mycroft, Sherlock and Lestrade, they went back to the living room, where Greg turned on the telly and Mycroft grabbed a book. When Greg found a match, John gladly settled in to watch it with him. Sherlock looked torn for a moment, then sat next to his brother on the couch, leaning in to him, and letting Mycroft softly read to him. It was, all in all, a very quiet and simple way to spend the evening, and John was grateful for it, managing to maintain a calm in his mind as he shared time and space with his friends. 

*****

The following morning, however, was another matter.

They'd gone to bed rather late, and the bed in the blue room he'd been assigned was sinfully comfortable, so John had spent many blissful hours sleeping and then slumbering, until he couldn't in good conscience languish in bed any longer. It wasn't even eight, but the soldier in him always woke him early, and wouldn't abide him staying inactive much longer. When he emerged into the hallway, he noticed the other two doors were slightly open.

He moved to Sherlock's room and took a quick peek inside, finding it empty. After a very brief debate with himself, John moved on to Mycroft and Greg's room, pushing the door open, relieved it didn't creak. And there he saw what he should have expected, but hadn't. Mycroft was on his back, Sherlock snuggled into him tightly, and Greg was tucked up against Sherlock, his arm pulling both Sherlock and Mycroft close. Despite their assurances, despite what he'd seen so far, John found it unsettling. He closed the door and went downstairs.

As soon as he hit the downstairs hallway, Austin appeared from out of nowhere.

"Good morning, Dr Watson. Did you sleep well?"

"Ah, yes, thank you. I… ehm…"

"Breakfast is served at nine, Sir. Can I perhaps show you to the gymnasium? Or otherwise, I would be glad to show you to the media room, where the morning papers have been laid out and morning television is at your demand, and I can provide you with tea or coffee to tide you over until breakfast?"

"Ehm… the media room, then, please."

"Certainly, Sir. Please follow me."

Shaking his head at everything he'd seen, heard and encountered so far, John allowed the butler to bring him to another glorious and welcoming room. It was done in light tones, the carpeting enticingly soft under his slippers, and four television screens mounted on the wall didn't even detract from the old world feel of the room. Austin pointed out the remote control, the papers, and tablets available for open access for guests, and left John there, only to return minutes later with tea and coffee and biscuits.

Once alone again, John turned on the telly, not listening or watching, instead retreating into his own mind again whilst sipping tea. He was roused from his contemplation some time later by Austin, who informed him it was five minutes to breakfast, and showed him to the morning room. 

Here was yet another marvelous room, early sunlight streaming in through the large windows, lighting up the cheerily colored walls and reflecting in the polished surface of the table that could easily seat twenty. Mycroft, dressed impeccably in one of his bespoke three piece suits, stood at a buffet table, carefully spooning a few bits of food onto a plate a footman held out for him.

"Ah, good morning, John," Mycroft purred as he spotted him coming in. "I like breakfast to be a rather informal affair, so please, do help yourself."

Staring at the buffet laid out before him - full English, breads, fruit, cereals, more lavish than a large hotel's breakfast offering - John grinned at himself and thought: "informal??"

Mycroft, finished with his selection, took his plate from the footman and settled at the head of the table, where he was immediately poured tea and juice. Having plated his own choices, John turned to the table and hesitated. Where to sit? It was again the inscrutable Austin who solved the dilemma for him, pulling out the second chair on Mycroft's left hand side and motioning John into it. 

Lestrade came strolling into the room in jeans, t-shirt and socks, made a point of greeting everyone by first name, and quickly assembled his breakfast before sitting down at Mycroft's right hand. 

It was then that John looked down at his plate and noticed something unusual. He had opted for a full English, but the sausages were tiny, the tomatoes were cherry ones, the mushrooms were buttons, even the fried eggs were small, likely quail eggs. Of course, none of this escaped Mycroft's attention.

"My brother likes breakfast, but eats very little, as I am certain you know. I myself like to partake a little of everything, but must unfortunately watch my weight."

Mycroft patted his stomach regretfully while Lestrade snorted incredulously.

"So Mrs Weaver always prepares this compromise, ensuring that both Sherlock and I can indulge without feeling stuffed and bloated afterwards."

Before John could answer, the door opened again and Sherlock strode in. He was in dark slacks and a light grey shirt, his feet were bare. Perhaps that was what Mycroft meant when he said breakfast was informal? But before he could fully form the thought, Sherlock surprised him again. He offered a casual "Morning." to the room, but then leant down to kiss Mycroft on the cheek, and said softly: "Good morning, My."

Mycroft reached up and covered Sherlock's fingers, which had landed on his shoulder, with his own, and replied: "Good morning, Lock."

After Sherlock had selected his food and sat at Mycroft's left hand side, and they had eaten about half their offerings, Mycroft casually asked: "So, what shall we do today?"

John had nothing to offer, and Lestrade concentrated on getting more food into his mouth, so it was up to Sherlock, as was no doubt the intention.

"Can we go shopping in the High Street, My? Like we used to?"

Mycroft actually looked taken aback for a moment, then collected himself and smiled. 

"Of course, my sweet. We shall go directly after breakfast."

When they were done eating, Lestrade and Sherlock went back upstairs and returned minutes later, Sherlock now shod and Lestrade in slacks and what looked like a bespoke shirt and cashmere sweater. John goggled for a second, then let it go. And then they were off.

*****

Shopping with Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes was an adventure. Sherlock rushed from store to store like an over-excited toddler, touching everything, selecting some things, and thrusting them into the waiting arms of Mycroft, who then took everything to the till to pay for it all and handed the bags to Greg and John to carry. Mycroft indulged his brother unashamedly, and at every purchase collected the thanks bestowed upon him with a pleased little smile. John and Greg made several trips back to the sleek black car that was following them on the street to put away the purchases when the bags became too heavy or cumbersome for them to carry comfortably. John was so entranced by the spectacle that he never noticed that every time he eyed something with a look of longing, things he would never himself purchase here on his salary, Sherlock and Greg distracted him asking for his opinion and Mycroft discretely added the perused items to those for his brother and Greg. 

It was just before one when they reached the end of the High Street, where a music store was located. Mycroft checked his watch and stopped the rascal just inside the door.

"Half an hour, my sweet. Then it is time for a spot of lunch."

"Yes, My!" Sherlock answered, and rushed off to the back of the store, where rows and rows of sheet music were on display. Meanwhile, Mycroft was approached by an elderly gentleman.

"Mr Holmes! How lovely to have you in our humble establishment again."

"Mr Richards. How are you?"

"Please, gentlemen," Mr Richards gestured towards a corner where some comfortable chairs and tables were set up. "Can I get you anything while you wait?"

"Tea would be lovely, Mr Richards, thank you," Mycroft responded for all three of them as they settled into the chairs.

Mr Richards disappeared and short minutes later, a younger woman, clearly the daughter of Mr Richards, appeared with a tray loaded with tea and cups.

"Good afternoon, Mr Holmes."

"Good afternoon, Ms Richards. Are you well?"

"Thank you, Mr Holmes, very well indeed. So good to see you again."

"And you as well. My brother is perusing your always excellent selection. Shall he find something he likes, I wonder?"

Mycroft's eyes twinkled with amusement, and the young woman smiled back equally amused.

"I'm certain he shall, Mr Holmes. We took delivery of a very fine collection of violin sheets only a few weeks ago which I know shall please Mr Sherlock. Please, enjoy your tea, and let me know if you would like anything else."

"Thank you, Ms Richards. We certainly shall. Always a pleasure."

When the woman had departed, Mycroft poured tea for all three of them and sat back with his cup in hand, his eyes glued to the sight of Sherlock in the back of the store, carefully perusing the collection there. He sighed, and spoke quietly, never looking at John and Greg, almost as if he were unaware that he was actually speaking out loud to an audience.

"The first time we came here like this, I was nineteen and he was twelve. It was nearing the end of the summer hols, which I had spent back home from uni, and Mummy asked me to take Sherlock shopping for his back to school needs. He was every bit the child he still now portrays, rushing from store to store, and it was the first time since I had left for school that I finally felt like Sherlock's older brother again. He never really forgave me for leaving him. I never really forgave myself. But that day, he accepted what I offered."

Mycroft finished his tea and put down his cup, then checked his pocket watch for the time. 

"I shall go see if I can persuade him to finish his perusing. It is nearly time for lunch."

The two men stared after Mycroft as he got up and went to the back of the store to collect his sibling. 

"That was a bit different," John said.

"Not really, mate. You're just not used to it. Yet."

John turned to his friend, and saw a very satisfied and content man staring at two men he deeply loved. 

*****

They took lunch at a very high end tearoom at the end of the High Street, and John felt quite self-conscious in the luxurious surroundings. He noticed Greg, on the other hand, seemed very comfortable, and realized his friend actually looked like he belonged there, dressed in clothes he would never have expected Lestrade to own, let alone wear. When Sherlock and Mycroft were engaged in a quiet discussion, he leaned over to Greg and asked him about it.

"I feel a little out of place here."

Lestrade's sharp gaze observed him for a moment.

"That's understandable, I guess. It took me a while to get used to being in places like this with Mycroft. But then I realized I was, in fact, with Mycroft, and I could probably be as boorish and lower class as I liked and no one would say or do anything about it, because I was with Mycroft. That kind of took the discomfort away. So I just imitated My. Say what you will about him, but there's hardly any better teacher for proper manners than him. And after a few times, I asked Austin and Janet to tell me a bit about proper etiquette. That was actually quite fun."

Lestrade grinned, and John couldn't help but smile back as he pictured it in his mind.

"Well, at least you look the part. I've never seen you dressed like that, Greg."

"You like it?" Lestrade's eyes twinkled as he ran a hand over the soft cashmere of his sweater. "It's a bit much for the office or a crime scene, so I don't get to wear stuff like this very often, but I do like it. I've always loved Mycroft's suits, but I can't pull that look off. My suggested this more casual but still refined look, and I have to say, I feel comfortable and confident in it."

"And very dashing," Mycroft said from the other side of the table, his eyes clearly admiring the detective inspector, who preened a little at the praise. Even Sherlock smiled and ran his eyes approvingly over Lestrade, causing another pang of jealousy in the doctor, who felt even more aware of his plain shirt and jumper now. Sherlock seemed to notice and huffed.

"Don't be silly, John. You are a very fine man, and any establishment should feel lucky to have your patronage."

Then, realizing what he'd just said, Sherlock quickly looked away. Luckily for him, they were interrupted by their lunch arriving at the table, and soon they were enjoying the food and amiably chatting.

"So, is this the end of the shopping trip then?" John asked when lunch was finished and they were enjoying a final cup of tea.

"Of course not! We've only been down one side of the High Street, John. There is an entire other side!" Sherlock proclaimed. Mycroft chuckled lightly.

"Don't worry, Dr Watson. Most of my brother's favorite shops we've already visited. The other side will be more of a leisurely stroll."

John tried to hide his reaction, but on the inside he goggled again. Mycroft had already spent thousands of pounds on his brother with the flick of a card, and now there was still more to come? It did explain the quality of the clothes Sherlock always wore, and how he came by them, something that had always niggled at him. But if the Holmes family was so wealthy, why did Sherlock need a flatmate to begin with? Surely Mycroft would have happily arranged for the rent for Sherlock at 221B to be paid without the need for a roommate? Or have Sherlock live with him and Greg at the house? But he could also see that that would probably be too much. Though he was redrawing his understanding of the relationship between the two brothers, and between them and Lestrade, he couldn't see the three of them cohabiting peacefully on a permanent basis. And what had Mycroft said? Sherlock wasn't meant to be alone, wasn't made for it. Was that the sole reason for having a flatmate? It seemed more and more logical, and he gained a sudden understanding of the trust and acceptance that Mycroft in particular had placed in him, allowing John to care for his brother when he himself could not do so constantly. 

Despite himself, John felt a little humbled.

"Time to go, I think," Lestrade said, seeing his friend working something in his mind again.

Minutes later, they were strolling out of the tearoom, and down the other side of the High Street. Mycroft's prediction was correct. Sherlock only visited a few of the shops on the way back, and his manic behavior had settled into a more sedate enthusiasm. Still, Lestrade and John had to make a few more trips to the black car still following them to put away more shopping. When they came to a quaint little bookshop, Lestrade waved the two brothers in, said he needed a smoke, and he and John would wait for them outside. He quickly lit up.

"You okay, mate?"

John smiled.

"Aren't you getting tired of asking me that? Of asking everyone that?"

"Never."

"Are YOU okay, Greg?"

Lestrade looked surprised and took a quick hit from his cigarette.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

John looked thoughtful for a moment, then settled himself to lean comfortably against the wall next to Lestrade.

"Over the past two days, I've seen you be a parent, a lover and a friend. You were the one who first got Sherlock calmed down. You were the one who got up to look after Irene that night in our flat. You got Sherlock to admit he wanted to come back to the house with you and Mycroft. You talked to me, explaining and comforting me. You even got called into work and when you came back, you settled things between Mycroft and Sherlock again, being parent to one and lover to the other. And still being a friend to me. Who takes care of you?"

Lestrade took another hit from his smoke.

"That's who I am, John. You all take care of me."

"How do you mean?"

"You're probably the only one who can really understand what it's like to live with a Holmes. Mycroft and I fight sometimes, have our disagreements. Of course we do. And when we do, I go out for a pint with you and spend some time in the normal world, with normal people, and it reminds me that I'm not stupid or slow, and that I'm not actually the one who has a skewed view of the world. And then I can go back to Mycroft and talk to him, and explain what has upset me and why."

Lestrade put out the stub of his cigarette and tossed it.

"Sherlock's rude and childish, and sometimes I really want to punch him in the face for his insults and airing everyone's secrets to whoever is present at the time, including mine. But then he needs me, and he's sweet and cuddly and he apologizes, and I'm so damn proud of him for who he has become, especially compared to what he was when I first met him. So damn proud. Not just a great man, but a good one. And that gives me the strength I need to get through the next day, and the next, no matter what else is thrown at me. I'm part big brother to him and part parent, something I'll never have with anyone else. I hope that will never change. You heard Mycroft in the music store. Sherlock allows things like that sporadically, when he needs it, but it gives both Mycroft and myself a charge that can't be replaced by anything."

Greg pushed away from the wall and stood in front of John, looking at him intensely. 

"You're at a crossroads, John, and it's been a long time coming. You're going to have to choose a path. You can remain a friend, and you'll always be welcome to all of us as that. Or, you can become something more. You already know what it's like to live with a Holmes. Take these days, observe what it's like to love a Holmes, to be loved by one. It's the most singular experience in the world. It's difficult, and sometimes it will break your heart, and some days you may want to throw in the towel and just give up. But it's like nothing else. It's addictive and rewarding, and you'll never have anything else like it. In the end, it's completely worth it."

"Are we interrupting, dear?" Mycroft's voice came from the left of them. Lestrade just kept staring at John.

"No, I think we've said all that needed to be said for now."

John's eyes were still locked on Lestrade's, and remained that way for a few moments more. Then he nodded.

"Yeah. I heard all I needed to hear."

Sherlock, who'd been fidgeting at the intensity of John and Lestrade facing each other, relaxed a little, and Mycroft smiled tentatively.

"Good. I think we have reached the end of our shopping trip, for now. I propose we return home and spend a quiet evening there."

Lestrade turned away from John towards Mycroft, grasped his lover's fingers in his own and brought them to his lips for a kiss, then smiled. 

"Sounds perfect."

*****

The drive home was spent in silence. Once again, Mycroft and Sherlock used their phones to hide behind, and Lestrade looked at the passing scenery, while John simply closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. Yet more to think about. Would these revelations never end? Greg had spoken to him of loving a Holmes, as if he already knew exactly what John was thinking about Sherlock. He probably did. John came to understand that Greg knew more about the Holmes brothers than John ever had in their years of association. And if John read him correctly, Greg was telling him that John too could be loved by a Holmes. By Sherlock. It was astounding, terrifying, and much more satisfying than he ever could have imagined.

When they reached the house, Sherlock pulled John from the car and looked down at him almost shyly.

"John? Would you care to utilize the pool with me?" Then he smiled impishly. "No snipers this time, I promise. No one would dare invade the privacy of Mycroft's pool."

John couldn't help but laugh and nod, even as his thoughts of the day before about doing things with Sherlock in the pool flashed through his mind.

"Sure! I could do with a bit of adventure. And so far, being at a pool with you has always been adventurous."

He smiled to let Sherlock know he was teasing, and Sherlock dragged him through the house to the gym, where they quickly changed into some shorts before diving into the pool. John regretted he'd only had a very limited view of Sherlock's long, lean, almost naked body before it disappeared into the water, but promised himself he'd take the time to think later and for now, just enjoy. They swam a little, played a game with an inflatable ball, and then Austin came in to bring them drinks. They floated around on air beds, sipping their drinks, and talking a little. Mostly it was what Sherlock would usually term 'inane prattle', but John was quickly learning that sometimes Sherlock appreciated the normality of that, at least in these surroundings.

Meanwhile, Mycroft and Lestrade had retreated to their bedroom after a quick chat with Austin and Mrs Weaver about dinner. When they arrived at the bedroom, a footman who had been putting away the few purchases Mycroft had made for Gregory and himself was just leaving. Lestrade strode into the room after thanking the footman, and in deference to the warmth in the house, quickly pulled off his cashmere sweater.

"Gregory…" Mycroft purred, watching his lover start to discard his clothing and closing the door behind him. Lestrade turned to look at him, and the twinkle in his eyes showed Mycroft his lover knew exactly what he was doing. 

"Hmmm?" Greg inquired innocently.

Mycroft was on him in a second, not caring about wrinkling his suit. He pushed Lestrade onto the bed on his back, and within moments had Gregory's trousers open and halfway down his thighs. Seeing his hard prize clearly outlined in the pants now revealed, Mycroft's eyes burned with hunger as he reached for it, freeing it from its confines, and sucking it hungrily into his mouth. Greg's body, except for that one part, simply went limp under Mycroft's ministrations, his arms flung out to the side as he surrendered completely to his lover's mouth. He didn't last long, he never did when Mycroft was like this, and while he was recovering, it was all he could do to shove a helping hand into Mycroft's pants so his lover could rut against him to find his own release.

Several minutes of heavy breathing later, Mycroft found his voice again.

"What did you and John talk about?"

Lestrade shimmied a little closer into Mycroft's still fully clad but snuggly body. 

"It was private."

"State secrets?"

"Yeah. State secrets."

"Alright."

Lestrade stayed silent for a few minutes, relishing the afterglow, then leaned up on an elbow so he could look at Mycroft.

"I told him he had a choice to make. To take this opportunity and observe. To love a Holmes."

Mycroft stared back at him until Lestrade started to flinch slightly.

"Are you mad at me? For meddling?"

Seeing the guilt and unease gathering in his lover's eyes, Mycroft gently caressed Gregory's cheek with his fingers.

"Never. You always know best in matters such as these. Sherlock is never going to make the first move. Do you think John will?"

Relieved, Greg smiled.

"I think he will. It might take a while. It's a scary thing, you know."

Lestrade laid back down, his head resting on Mycroft's shoulder.

"What is, dearest?"

"Loving a Holmes."

Mycroft blinked away the moisture that suddenly seemed to collect at the corners of his eyes as he pulled his detective inspector even closer. Allergies, surely. He should have Anthea check the house for allergens. He could suffer the discomfort himself, of course, but he would never allow anything to harm Gregory. This brave, sweet, loyal man, a heart of gold and a smile to match, topped with silver and sun-kissed bronze all over, who had found it in his heart to not only care for one of them, but two.

"I have neglected my duties to you, Gregory. I am sorry."

That made Lestrade sit up and stare at Mycroft.

"What?"

"I have not been as caring a partner to you as I should have been in the last few days. I have left you to take care of Sherlock, Irene, John, and even myself. I am deeply ashamed to have been so lacking."

As Mycroft turned his head away in shame, Lestrade grasped his chin and forced their eyes to meet. Then he leaned in and kissed Mycroft deeply, more soothingly than passionately, and grinned a little when he pulled back.

"John actually said something similar to me. As I told him, this is who I am. You give me much more than you're aware of. I love you. You have no duty to me, I just want you to love me in return."

"I do."

"Good. Then don't ruin my post-orgasm bliss, and just hold me, yeah?"

Nothing could make Mycroft happier than to hold the delightful and delicious Gregory in his arms, and he would do so until the end of days if he had anything to say about it.

*****

Down in the pool, Sherlock had latched on to the side of John's air bed so they could float together whilst sipping their drinks and talking. Seeing the trouble Sherlock was going through to keep them together, John pushed them over to the side of the pool, put down his drink and climbed onto Sherlock's air bed, just big enough to hold the two of them. Then he picked up his drink again and pushed off against the edge of the pool so they could float around.

"Is this okay?"

Sherlock shifted a little. 

"Yes, John. This is very… pleasing."

"Good. Sherlock… I want you to know… If you want…"

"Spit it out, John."

Didn't Sherlock understand how difficult this was for him to say? No, he probably didn't, and John shouldn't expect him to ever get it. He chuckled.

"Okay! Okay. Just… If you want, I could maybe be the one you could come to? If you like? If you think it will help?"

Sherlock stared at him for long moments, and John started to worry he had overstepped. Then Sherlock shifted again on the air bed, nearly tipping them over before he managed to settle his head on John's chest. 

"It does help. I would like that."

"Good."

John had never felt as satisfied as he did just then, floating around on an air bed in a pool, drink in his hand, and his best friend seeking the comfort of his body.

*****

After quite some time in the pool, John and Sherlock had both retreated to their rooms to change for dinner. When John opened the wardrobe to find some of his clean clothes, he was surprised to see several new items in there. Upon closer inspection, he realized these were things he'd been looking at during the day while Sherlock was shopping, and he finally understood exactly what had been going on there. Part of him felt he couldn't accept the gifts, but another part of him knew that if he made a point of it, Mycroft and probably Greg would be upset. He chose some of his own clothes to wear that evening, and made his way to the kitchen, where he found the other three men. Mycroft and Sherlock were sitting at the counter, sipping drinks and watching, while Greg was attempting to help Mrs Weaver and Amanda with dinner. They all knew that Lestrade was being given the most menial of tasks, and even then Mrs Weaver chided him affectionately. Amanda provided John with a drink, her eyes smiling.

John turned to Mycroft.

"Mycroft…"

John could see the deductions, could see the shutters coming down.

"I just wanted to thank you for the gifts. I love them. Thank you."

John was certain he didn't misinterpret the relaxing of tension he saw not only in Mycroft, but in Sherlock and Lestrade as well.

"You're most welcome, John. I thought those few items would be fitting and very becoming to you."

"They're great! Thank you again."

Mycroft dismissed the thanks with an imperious wave of hand, but a pleased little smile remained on his face.

"It is of no consequence. I am pleased you like them. Now, shall we repair to the dining room and save Mrs and Ms Weaver from the continued efforts of my dear Gregory to destroy their dinner preparations?"

"Hey!" Lestrade protested, but everyone was smiling, and they picked up their drinks to take them through to the dining room.

Once seated, Mycroft seemed to struggle with himself for a moment before he turned to Sherlock.

"Brother mine, how would you feel about inviting Mummy and Father for brunch here tomorrow?"

Sherlock looked aghast.

"It's been a long time since you've seen them, kiddo," Lestrade added quietly.

"Fine," Sherlock huffed after a moment. "But do not expect me to be pleasant."

"I would not dream of it, my sweet. Thank you."

And when Mycroft retreated for a moment to place a call to their parents and have Anthea arrange a car to pick them up, Sherlock received not only Lestrade's approving smile, but a tentative pat on the arm from John, which Greg didn't miss and grinned about. 

*****

After dinner, which was again a sumptuous affair, they retreated to the music room. After several entreaties from the other three, Sherlock had agreed to play some of the new music sheets they'd picked up at the Richards' music shop that afternoon. Of course, Sherlock wouldn't allow his brother to escape 'this indignity' as he called it, and Mycroft dutifully sat at the piano, ready to accompany his brother in whichever piece Sherlock selected. Lestrade and John settled into the comfortable chairs in the room, ready to enjoy the private concert.

John was surprised the brothers managed to get through several pieces without squabbling, and even more surprised to see Lestrade leaning back into his chair, completely relaxed and happy as he focused on the music and the two brothers. John had of course heard Sherlock playing many times before, but hadn't known Mycroft also had musical instruction. Where Sherlock played with passion as always, and wasn't perfect, Mycroft was like a metronome. His fingers danced over the ivory keys in absolute perfection, but his playing lacked the passion his little brother conjured up in just a few notes. Mycroft was an excellent musician, but his forte was clearly the accompaniment, he would never be the soloist.

Once again, John thought how appropriate a role that was for Mycroft, supporting his brother, shoring him up, doing everything in his power to make it so that Sherlock could shine. John was starting to understand Mycroft a lot better these days, and felt a little guilty at the unkind thoughts he'd had for the man in the previous years.

After playing a few of the new pieces Sherlock had selected that afternoon, they fell back unto old favorites, and there Sherlock really shone. As Mycroft played, he barely glanced at the sheet music, focusing instead on his little brother, his face lighting up in pleasure every time Sherlock apparently deviated from the usual and threw in an improvisation. Every piece met with applause from John and Greg, and even from Mycroft, who praised his brother gladly and earnestly. When the little concert was over, Mycroft and Sherlock put the music away, and Lestrade ushered John back into the living room.

"You're starting to see things differently," Greg said as they both settled into the comfortable sofas.

"Mmmm," John acknowledged with a nod, then took another sip of his drink. "I'm certainly beginning to understand I have not been fair to Mycroft."

"Very few people ever have been. Not even their parents."

At John's raised eyebrow, Lestrade elaborated.

"Sherlock's always been their favorite. As soon as he was born, Mycroft was basically pushed into the role of another adult, even though he was only seven years old. And when the whole mess with Eurus happened, the first time, their uncle Rudy cemented that role for him by dragging him into it and forcing that secret unto him. Did Sherlock ever tell you what their parents said after the debacle at Sherrinford, when they were told that Eurus was still alive?"

John shook his head curiously.

"Mummy called Mycroft an idiot boy and said Sherlock had always been the adult."

Part of John wanted to laugh maliciously, part of him felt sad for Mycroft, but the largest part of him acknowledged how wrong that was and how much it must have hurt Mycroft. John doted on Sherlock, loved him as his best friend and as something more, but not even those feelings blinded him from the fact that Sherlock was anything but an adult, at least emotionally. And that had nothing to do with the last couple of days.

"I'm sorry," he said eventually. "Have they managed to mend fences since then?"

"Not really. They've been to see her three times now, but they attribute that completely to Sherlock. They'll take Mycroft's calls, but if the first words out of his mouth aren't that it's about Sherlock or Eurus, the call is over. They've visited here twice, but that was for my sake, not to see him. When we went there for Mummy's birthday last month, they only talked to me, Mycroft might as well have been a statue in the corner of the room that everyone knows is there, but as an inanimate object isn't worthy of recognition."

"That's harsh." John actually found himself feeling a bit of resentment at the Holmes parents on Mycroft's behalf. "Why'd he do it then? Invite them to brunch tomorrow?"

"Why else?" Lestrade huffed. "For Sherlock, of course. Sherlock's not happy with either of them for their treatment of Mycroft, but can't let himself admit that to them. But he hasn't wanted to see them other than the visits to Eurus because of it. When Sherlock said he 'wouldn't be pleasant', that was him showing support to Mycroft. Expect a tense brunch tomorrow, John."

"Giving away state secrets again, Gregory?" Mycroft asked as he and Sherlock appeared in the room. Greg grinned at him.

"Always, My. You know I can't keep my gob shut."

Mycroft smiled back at him.

"Yes, well, we must see what we can do to keep your mouth occupied in more pleasant manners then." He bent over to kiss Lestrade before settling on the sofa next to the man. Sherlock dropped down next to John and buried his face into John's neck with a groan, but John could feel Sherlock's lips smiling against his skin.

"Please, brother, keep your filth with Geoff to yourself for the sake of my sanity."

"I shall, my sweet, if what remains of your sanity depends upon it."

All four men chuckled, and Lestrade suggested a film, and the rest of the evening was spent watching an old classic. Sherlock and Mycroft talked all through the film, deducing the characters and the actors, and John and Lestrade laughed at their mutterings, relaxed and happy.

*****

It was around four in the morning when John woke to the sound of his bedroom door opening. Blinking against the soft light spilling in from the hallway, he saw Sherlock silhouetted in the frame. 

"Sherlock?"

"Did you mean it, John?"

John didn't ask what. He seldom said things he didn't mean, and even more rarely said them to Sherlock, so the answer was easy.

"Yes."

A bit of tension seemed to leave Sherlock's body, and he moved carefully to the edge of John's blue guest bed. Understanding dawned, and John simply lifted the corner of his blue comforter. Sherlock slid in and without hesitation draped himself over John's side. It felt a little bit like a victory to John, and then he simply put an arm around his friend and held him as he felt Sherlock slip back into sleep, following him minutes later.

*****

Lestrade woke to an unexpectedly empty bed and a deep desire for coffee. He pulled on a dressing gown over his t-shirt and pajama bottoms and stepped into the hallway to find Mycroft, similarly attired, leaning against the doorjamb of the blue room, looking in with a soft but wistful smile on his face. Lestrade approached his lover and slid his arms around Mycroft's waist from behind, then peeked in himself. Sherlock was curled up around John, both still sleeping soundly, while John protectively held one arm around the consulting detective. After a few moments, Lestrade pulled Mycroft away and led him to the kitchen, where coffee and tea were brewing.

"Are you okay?" he asked, as he put a perfectly doctored cup of tea in front of Mycroft.

"Will he not need me anymore now?" Mycroft countered. Lestrade chuckled.

"He'll always need you, My. Always. This is but a first step, though it's a good one. John is good for your brother, we both know that. But there will never be a time when Sherlock won't need you, his big brother, to make him feel safe."

Mycroft frowned a little.

"Are you certain?"

Lestrade sipped at his coffee and then gently placed his coffee-warmed lips against Mycroft's throat.

"Of course. Do you really think Sherlock will be able to navigate a relationship with John - or anyone - without any troubles? Once they actually become boyfriends or lovers, or whatever, I give it a week before they have their first fight. And who do you think he'll come to? He'll always need you."

Mycroft gave a wan smile.

"I do not wish them any trouble, of course, but the thought is comforting."

"I don't think you'll have to worry about anything," Lestrade said, pulling out the papers and separating them into the sections they each liked to read. Then he hesitated a little before plowing on. "Are you feeling okay about today? About brunch?"

Mycroft's eyes darkened.

"Does it matter? I shall scant have to do or say anything. They are coming for Sherlock, and for you. I shall merely have to sit and drink tea."

"And eat something."

"I do not think I shall have much of an appetite."

"You will eat. Sherlock will worry if you don't. Almost as much as I will."

Seeing Mycroft's defiance, Greg pressed on.

"What was it you said to Sherlock when Irene was ill? That he should sleep and take care of himself, because he wouldn't be able to care for her if he made himself sick. The same goes for you. How can you care for Sherlock if you are faint with hunger?"

Mycroft sighed.

"I bow to your blackmail, Gregory, as always."

"Not blackmail, love. Simply common sense. Now drink your tea and read your paper. You have about an hour an a half to settle your business before your parents arrive."

*****

About half an hour later, John and Sherlock entered the kitchen, going for their own cups of tea immediately even before greeting the other two men sitting and reading the papers. Sherlock looked settled, and John had a soft smile on his face. Mycroft was surprised, but pleasantly so, when Sherlock leaned into him, kissed his cheek and whispered: "Good morning, dear brother mine." It went a long way to allay his fears.

Not long afterwards, Mrs Weaver and Amanda entered the kitchen, said their good mornings, and ushered them out to get dressed while they started preparations for brunch. A short while later, the four of them met up in the living room again, now dressed and readying themselves for the brunch to follow. Lestrade was pleased to see John had opted to dress in jeans and one of the shirts Mycroft had purchased for him during yesterday's shopping trip. Lestrade himself was also casual, jeans and a cashmere sweater with nothing underneath. Sherlock had chosen his usual armor of black slacks and purple shirt, while even Mycroft was attempting casual, foregoing his waistcoat, jacket and tie, and simply in shirtsleeves and slacks. They sipped tea as they waited.

As the arrival time of Mummy and Father Holmes approached, tensions were mounting.

"If they ignore you, I shall ignore them," Sherlock suddenly blurted.

"Please, Sherlock," Mycroft said, "they are your parents. Do not impede your relations to them for my sake."

"They're your parents too," Lestrade said softly.

"And I apparently have not deserved to be thought of as their son. I will not be the cause of them losing both a daughter and Sherlock for a minor…"

"… nothing minor about this, Mycroft," John interrupted. Mycroft gaped at him, Sherlock looked very pleased, and Lestrade smiled softly. "No matter what they think you've done, or not done, they're your parents too, and the truth is what matters. And the truth is…" John swallowed, "… the truth is, whatever happened, you did it for Sherlock."

Mycroft seemed to crumble into himself, and needed to ground himself in Gregory's loving embrace. He only just managed to breathe out three words: "Thank you, John."

As Lestrade held Mycroft, Sherlock beamed at John and wrapped his long arms around the doctor in thanks. Long minutes later, the doorbell rang, and Austin came to inform them that the Holmes parents had arrived.

*****

"Good morning, Mummy, Father," Mycroft offered politely as Austin showed the Holmes parents into the morning room where brunch would be taken.

"Sherlock!" Mummy gushed, and captured her younger son in an embrace Sherlock endured stiffly. "And John! How lovely to see you again! We were so sorry to hear about Mary!" she swiftly moved on.

"Yes, well," John managed to mutter before hurricane Mummy once again turned, and caught Lestrade in her sights.

"Greg!" she beamed at him, kissing his cheeks even as Lestrade tried to pull back. Father followed along, shaking hands with the three men in the wake of his wife. 

"Well, this is all very pleasant," she exclaimed. "Pour me a cup of tea, darling." Father Holmes did as bid, and the two of them settled in two armchairs of the seating arrangement to the side of the breakfast table. Sherlock and John shared one of the sofas, while Lestrade settled on another. Mycroft remained standing, and tried to hide himself in a corner. Tea was poured for the others by Austin, and Mummy chattered to John and Greg while Sherlock visibly sulked and Mycroft remained invisible to her. 

"Mycroft," Lestrade said in his detective inspector voice, "tea."

The British Government could not refuse that tone any more than his little brother could, and shuffled over to the sofa to sit next to Lestrade and sip his tea. When Austin opened the door again to admit Mrs Weaver and Amanda, carrying trays filled with no doubt delicious tidbits for brunch and setting them on the table, Mummy greeted them warmly. Mrs Weaver nodded at the Holmes matriarch while Amanda kept her head down, and they quickly disappeared again. Was it John's imagination, or was that decidedly frosty? Both women had welcomed him into their kitchen if not warmly, then at least with some respect and pleasure. John glanced at Austin. The man was distinctly displeased, but John knew he could only see it on his face because Mrs and Mr Holmes were facing the other way. There was no doubt in John's mind. Mycroft's staff was loyal to him, and they very much disliked what was happening here. So did John, he realized.

They endured another fifteen minutes or so of Mrs Holmes' chatter, then went to be seated at the table. Mycroft took the head, of course, as it was his house and his table, and Lestrade and Sherlock conceded their usual seats at Mycroft's right and left hand side respectively to Mummy and Father Holmes. John sat at Sherlock's left as he had at previous seatings. Mummy and even Father chatted, trays were handed round, but none of it made it to Mycroft. John eyed the man carefully and suspiciously. Mycroft looked tired and pale, and not at all as he had the night before, happy and flushed. John suspected low blood sugar and stress as the main causes. Lestrade tried to reach across Mummy Holmes several times to hand Mycroft some food, but she intercepted it with a polite excuse every time. Austin tried to get his employer a plate, only to be politely told off by Mummy, saying that she could very well care for her family without his help. 

John felt both his anger and his concern rise. Mycroft would just sit there, let this happen, just for the sake of his little brother. Austin was in no position to go against Mrs Holmes. Lestrade didn't want to alienate her for fear that the relation would be severed completely. Sherlock wouldn't stand up to her because Mycroft didn't want him to. John made a decision.

He grabbed another plate, loaded it with the delicious bites Mrs Weaver and her daughter had prepared, got up and walked over to Mycroft. He put the plate in front of the man and said softly: "I will stand here until you've eaten at least half of that."

The grateful looks he received from Lestrade, Sherlock and Austin more than made up for the discomfort of Mrs Holmes' stare. 

"He does not need to eat, he has plenty of reserves," she huffed at John.

"No, he doesn't, Mrs Holmes. And as much as I appreciated your welcome to your home that Christmas to both myself and Mary, you're being very rude to your son right now. And disrespectful. And uncaring of his well-being. I am a doctor, and Mycroft needs to have sustenance."

Sherlock spoke softly.

"Eat, My. You're too skinny as it is."

"Please, My," Lestrade added.

Glancing from one to the other, Mycroft weakened. He was not feeling well. He was hungry and stressed, and the support he was getting right now was bolstering him to no end. He reached out and picked up one of the small Victorian sandwiches Mrs Weaver had prepared so lovingly.

Only to have it slapped out of his hand by his very own mother.

Mycroft did not catch anything of the ruckus that exploded behind him after that. He needed to get to his room. His room and Gregory's, where the pillow would smell of Gregory and would sustain him until all this was over. His mother had slapped food out of his hand the way she had when he was ten and grasping for the one cookie a week he allowed himself as an indulgence. It was humiliating and dreadful, and Mycroft felt his cheeks burn in shame and embarrassment. Not only had Sherlock and John and Austin been there, but Gregory, his dear, sweet Gregory, who had been so accepting and loving towards him and now surely could only see him as the fat, weak bastard Mycroft truly was. 

Mycroft buried himself in the pillows on their bed, buried his too long nose and displeasing features in the pillow that smelled of Gregory, and despaired.

*****

Lestrade had never been more proud of Sherlock than he was at this moment.

"Mother, Father, you will remain here. Eat, if you can after that shameful display. We shall return."

Then the consulting detective turned and strode out of the morning room. Lestrade could almost see his coat swirling around Sherlock as he did it, even without him wearing it. John swiftly followed, and Greg, with a glance to Austin who gave him a pleased nod, traipsed after them.

On the stairs, Lestrade overtook the detective pair in his rush to get to Mycroft, only to find his lover in a dejected puddle, cuddling his pillow like a precious object. Lestrade settled down on his side of the bed and gradually scooted closer, not paying much attention to Sherlock who spread himself out on the foot of their bed, or John, who hesitantly joined Sherlock there.

"My?" Lestrade asked softly, gently pulling away the pillow Mycroft held to his face. 

"Don't look at me. Forget me. Leave me," Mycroft mumbled dramatically.

Lestrade, to his credit, didn't laugh.

"Can't do that, My. You've got me, whether you want to or not. I'm all yours. Come on. Show me that stunning face of yours."

"Do not lie to me, Detective Inspector."

"Wow. You haven't called me that in a long time. I don't know whether to be flattered or appalled."

"Please, Gregory. Leave me now and make it short and sweet instead of drawn out and dreadful. I might survive if you could just shatter me at once. I could have the pieces glued back together. Who needs a heart, anyway? I have already been reliably informed I do not have one. Please."

Lestrade succeeded in removing the pillow in favor of looking his lover in the eye. 

"And who said that, hmmm? Was it Sherlock? Because we both know he's wrong about something every time he does his deductions."

Sherlock huffed through a smile, and stroked his brother's leg in comfort.

"Or was it the people downstairs? Because, I've gotta say, they really don't know what they're talking about."

"They really don't," John added, and then put his warm hand on Mycroft's ankle. It was a tiny gesture, but it made them all feel so much better.

*****

A gentle knock on the partially opened door revealed Mrs Weaver. She didn't even blink at the picture presented to her. 

Mycroft was still curled around Lestrade's pillow, hugging it to his chest, but he had allowed Gregory to draw near enough to rest his face on the same pillow as Mycroft's, breathing the same air. Sherlock was lounging at the foot of the bed, his hand continuously stroking up and down Mycroft's calf, and John was still seated, simply resting his hand on Mycroft's ankle. The British Government was still frightfully embarrassed, but far more relaxed than he had been, and not near tears for fear of Gregory leaving him. 

"Mr and Mrs Holmes are expressing a wish to leave, Sir. Austin is providing tea in the library."

As Mycroft tensed again, Sherlock patted his thigh.

"Relax, brother mine. We shall take care of this."

Sherlock rose from the bed and with an imperious gesture, summoned John to follow him. After a second, Lestrade got up as well. He kissed Mycroft on the cheek, then muttered: "I better go see what those two are up to. Come down when you feel like it, yeah? Please?"

Mycroft nodded and waited until all three had left the room, then rallied himself and stood, making his way over to the bathroom. He considered himself in the mirror. He looked dreadful. He was pale and trembling, and he knew that was only partially due to lack of food and stress over his parents. It had everything to do with Gregory. The fear of Gregory finally seeing how worthless and useless and terribly weak he was, and leaving him over this. Oh, he knew Gregory would always care for Sherlock, maybe even for Mycroft himself in a way, after all, that was the kind of man Lestrade was. But he'd feared he would never feel Gregory's arms around him again, never breathe in his scent, never have the comfort of his solid presence near again. But Gregory had lain down with him, had not cared about Sherlock and John seeing, had soothed him and comforted him. If anything, Mycroft owed Gregory his presence while his parents tore apart his life.

*****

"So, you're leaving?" John said as they entered the library. "Bit rude, considering we haven't even really started brunch. Especially not one of us."

"Dr Watson…" Mummy started, but John cut her off.

"No, no, it's alright, I understand. It's what Holmeses are good at, running away."

Father Holmes bristled.

"I have never run away in my life, young man!"

"Haven't you? Sure looks like you're doing it now?"

Father shoved himself back into his armchair, and took a ferocious sip of his tea. Lestrade quietly blessed Austin as the butler brought three glasses and a bottle of whiskey, then poured for Lestrade, John and Sherlock. 

"I'm done running," Sherlock said after a sip and a grateful smile to Austin. "I belong with John. However he would have me."

"Sherlock!" Mummy exclaimed, outraged. "It's bad enough that idiot boy has eschewed his duty to his family by persisting in this dalliance with Gregory, but you are the responsible one! You will provide us with the grandchildren that will extenuate the family line. You may dabble on the side if you cannot help yourself, but you will give us the progeny we deserve."

While Sherlock and John stared at her, mouths agape, Lestrade chuckled darkly.

"Dalliance? Nice to finally know what you really think of our decade long loving relationship."

"Not to offend, Gregory," Father said, "you are a fine man, but…"

"I think you better stop right there," John interrupted.

"No, no!" Greg said. "Do go on! Keep digging that hole you're already standing in."

The elder Holmeses seemed to finally grasp they had gone too far. A tense silence fell over the group for long moments. It was Sherlock who finally broke it.

"Mycroft has never eschewed any duty, to family or otherwise, in his entire life. As for getting the grandchildren you deserve, well, they certainly would be that if they were fathered by me. They would be a nightmare, and that would be exactly what you deserve. I'm not the responsible one, never have been and never will be. The only reason I'm still alive today is because of Mycroft, and Greg and John. And I am certain I will need them, all three of them, for the rest of my life. I can do very well without you, but not without them. So think carefully before you continue your diatribe. And don't ever call my brother an idiot again. Only I get to do that. And maybe sometimes Greg."

Sherlock grinned impishly at Lestrade, who couldn't help but smile back with a bit of humor. 

"And if John and I can find even a tenth of the happiness Mycroft has found with Greg, in whatever way, we shall be the second happiest couple in the world."

As Sherlock shyly looked at John at that pronouncement, John interlaced his fingers with the consulting detective's and brought them to his lips for a kiss. 

"Amen to that," he said softly.

After watching his pseudo-adopted little brother and his friend take yet another big step towards a romantic relationship, Lestrade cleared his throat and turned to the Holmes parents again.

"I've always liked you. But the past year and even just today have deeply tarnished that. I mean, I always knew there were those little things that rubbed the wrong way, but everyone has those, right? But now? I've had more than enough. Mycroft is a wonderful man. He's difficult, demanding, infuriating, and I love him more than anything. If you cannot find it in yourselves to see that, and to apologize with sincerity and start making amends before you leave here today, I will not see you again, and will do everything in my power to see to it he doesn't have to see you again either. I will not let you hurt him anymore."

"Neither will I," Sherlock added, and John nodded in agreement.

"Gregory…" came Mycroft's soft voice from the doorway. Lestrade had no idea how long his lover had been standing there, but apparently he'd heard enough. Lestrade was out of his seat and standing in front of Mycroft in seconds, gently cupping a hand to his flushed cheek.

"You okay, love?"

Mycroft nodded, but his eyes were shiny.

"You still love me?" he asked quietly. "Even after being confronted with all this, being shown how useless and unworthy I am?"

"There may be unworthy people here, My, but it's not you. Never you. I'll always love you. Even when I'm sometimes angry with you, I'll still love you."

Mycroft nodded again, and John cleared his throat and pulled Sherlock up off the sofa. He addressed the room.

"The four of us are going to finally start brunch. I suggest the two of you stay here in the library and think for a while. You can leave any time you like, but consider the consequences if you do."

Then he ushered Sherlock, Greg and Mycroft out, followed by a positively grinning Austin. Just before Austin closed the door behind them, Sherlock could be heard chuckling.

"You put our parents in detention, John."

"Ehm, should I be sorry about that?"

"No, no! It was positively thrilling!"

*****

In the morning room, Lestrade, Sherlock and John took their seats again, but Mycroft forewent his place at the head of the table to sit next to his detective inspector. Austin provided each of them with another helping of whiskey to help with the shock, then retreated, no doubt to tell Mrs Weaver and the others of what he had witnessed. After just a couple of sips of the alcohol and a few bites of the delicious food, Mycroft was already feeling better and getting a bit of color back in his cheeks.

"Thank you," he said, looking down at his plate.

Again, John had thoughts rushing through his brain. Mycroft seemed so vulnerable now, too ashamed to even look at them. He could feel the fears and doubts radiating from the man, he had since he had lightly touched him in the bedroom earlier. 

"Mycroft?" John waited until the British Government finally met his eyes across the table. "I need to apologize to you as well. I…"

"There's no need, John. Your words and actions in the past half hour have told me more than enough. And I'm delighted to see you are wearing my gift."

John looked down at his shirt, and suddenly understood that in itself meant a lot to Mycroft. It was acceptance. By accepting Mycroft's gift, John had accepted the man himself. He cleared his throat.

"It's lovely, Mycroft. Thank you again."

"You're very welcome, John."

They chatted as they ate, but their minds were never far from the two people in the library, if they were even still there. As the meal came to an end, they couldn't help but speculate.

"I meant it, big brother. I will not tolerate their behavior any longer."

"They are your parents, Sherlock. I wish you would be more accepting of them."

"Why should I? If they cannot accept you or my… friendship with John?"

Mycroft looked to Lestrade for help, but the man shook his silver head.

"Sorry, My. I'm with Sherlock on this one. I would normally never want a family to fall apart, but after what they said and did…"

"I had already been contemplating cutting down on the visits to our sister. I am not getting much out of it, and the more we are in contact, the more the danger of something occurring rises."

Mycroft tried to hide his relief, but it was not missed by the others.

"I think that would be wise, my sweet. Thank you."

John and Lestrade were relieved as well. Neither of them had ever liked the idea of Sherlock once again going into the lion's den. 

"Why don't we all go try and relax a little?" John suggested. "I would propose a walk around the grounds, but it's raining now. How about we all go take a swim in that marvelous pool of yours?"

He looked to Mycroft and saw him stiffen. John wondered what mistake he'd made, then it suddenly became clear to him. The comments, his mother actually slapping food out of his hand, Mycroft's hesitation over whether Greg still loved him or not. There was a lot of insecurity there. And with everything that had happened today, Mycroft had to be at a very low point. He wouldn't want anyone seeing his body as exposed as it would be in the pool. John bit his lip, worrying about how to reassure the other man. But Lestrade beat him to it.

"Yeah," Greg murmured breathily, kissing Mycroft's cheek, "come on, beautiful, let me get a good look at those lovely long limbs of yours. I'm gonna have to wear my loose swim shorts today, so Sherlock and John won't be able to see how you always affect me when I have all that perfect skin of yours to see and touch."

It was perhaps crude and less than subtle, but Mycroft blushed and let his lover pull him out of his seat and towards the gym.

*****

After swimming quite a few laps each, once again the air beds had been dragged into the pool. Mycroft and Lestrade were floating on one, while Sherlock and John occupied the other. Mycroft had dallied in the changing room until Sherlock and John had jumped into the pool, and he had slipped into the water while they weren't looking. But after swimming for a while, Lestrade had made good on his promise and had taken every opportunity he could to capture Mycroft, caressing his skin, pressing a kiss here and there, and gradually, Mycroft had relaxed. They had been floating for while before John felt Sherlock starting to tense in his embrace.

"Sherlock? You okay?"

Sherlock tensed even more, then muttered desperately: "Don't be mad at me, John!", and rolled off the air bed, into the water and swiftly swimming to the side of the pool.

John sat up worriedly, and called to him. "Sherlock?"

This roused Lestrade and Mycroft, and in mere moments Mycroft was off his air bed as well, carefully approaching his brother, touching him gently on the shoulder. Mycroft spoke too softly for John to hear, and then the brothers were out of the pool and slipped into the hot tub to the side. When John was preparing to follow, Lestrade was suddenly at his side, holding him back.

"Leave it, John."

"But…"

"Not now. Give them some time together. Today has been very stressful so far, for both of them. They need each other now."

Not happy, but giving in to Lestrade's advice, John remained on his air bed and watched the two brothers. Mycroft settled in, and Sherlock gradually moved closer and closer until he was practically draped over his older brother, who then closed his arms around Sherlock. Mycroft spoke very quietly into his brother's ear, and Sherlock relaxed, and could even be heard to chuckle a few times. It reminded John very much of the previous days, when he'd seen Sherlock curl up against Lestrade or Mycroft, on the couch or in bed, seeking the comfort.

"It's good for both of them, you know."

John's eyes were torn away from the brothers to land on Lestrade, who was floating at his side.

"Sherlock gets to unwind, loosen his body and his mind, and Mycroft gets to accept that he is not as repulsive physically or emotionally as his mother made him feel this morning. Which is utterly ridiculous, of course."

"How do you deal with it, Greg?"

Lestrade chuckled ruefully.

"Hey, I'm easy. Show me a bit of affection now and then, and I'll roll over and let you scratch my belly. I'm the loyal dog, waiting for the master to show he knows I exist. And that's enough for me."

"Do not be absurd, Gregory," Mycroft's sharp voice came from the hot tub. "Get over here, you silly man."

Lestrade smiled at John and wiggled his eyebrows, showing he clearly knew Mycroft had been listening, and prodded John to come with him. Moments later, the two of them slipped into the hot tub as well.

Sherlock happily scooted even closer to his brother so John could settle in on his other side. When John didn't immediately do what he was supposed to be doing in Sherlock's mind, the consulting detective reached out and grabbed John's hand, pulling him in, arranging John against his back so Sherlock was sandwiched between John and Mycroft to his satisfaction. Lestrade unhesitatingly did the same to Mycroft. The brothers closed their eyes and leaned back, and over their prone forms, Lestrade and John looked at each other, at the brothers, then back at each other.

John nodded.

'I think I'm starting to understand', John thought. 'Loving a Holmes. It's difficult, and sometimes it will break your heart, but it's like nothing else.'

*****

All in all, they spent a couple of hours in the pool area, even taking a stint in the sauna now that Mycroft wasn't as self-conscious about his body around them. Both Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to have found their equilibrium again, despite the looming presence of their parents, who were still in the library as they had been informed earlier by Austin. Finally, they had showered and dressed, and were in the living room playing Ludo, when Austin appeared again.

"You have been requested in the library, Sir, Mr Sherlock."

"No," Greg said immediately. "If we're doing this, we're all going. And they can come to us in the… in the… in the Amber Room, Austin."

"Well chosen, Sir," Austin said with a bow before he left on his errand.

"Gregory?" Mycroft queried.

"This is your home, Mycroft, our home. They are not summoning the two of you like naughty schoolboys in our home!"

"Gregory…"

"No! I won't have it!"

"I merely wished to thank you, dearest, for your consideration and support."

"Oh…" Lestrade's cheeks flushed, "well, ehm…"

"Well put, Gawain," Sherlock chuckled.

Abandoning their game, the four men got up and made their way to the Amber Room. Like John's Blue Guest Room, it was clear how the room earned its name. The color scheme certainly pointed to it, and an ornate chandelier in gold and with amber ornaments hanging from it topped it off. Two brocade sofas in amber, yellows and golds faced each other at either side of a fireplace, and two chairs sat opposite the fireplace to complete the set up. The couples each occupied a sofa, and Mycroft poured sherry for each of them, keeping in line with the amber motif. 

Minutes later, the Holmes parents were shown in by Austin. Father accepted a glass of sherry and sat in one of the chairs, while Mummy fidgeted and paced, before standing at one of the windows.

"I do apologize," Father said after a sip of his drink, "and I do mean it. I want you to be happy, we want you to be happy. It has just been a shock to find out the possibility of grandchildren is now completely off the table."

"That's not all that's wrong here," Lestrade growled between sips.

"I know," Father said softly. "We've been talking about that too. Seeing our daughter like that… I've come to realize Mycroft was right. There is nothing to be done."

The old man sank further into his seat, and suddenly seemed to look every year of his age. 

"How did we ever come to this?" he whispered, and John and Lestrade felt for him. He was just an ordinary man, they thought, loving a brilliant wife and even more brilliant children he couldn't possibly hope to understand. Kind of like them.

At last, Mummy Holmes turned from the window to face the men.

"I apologize for my behavior earlier today," she said. John raised an eyebrow at her. "And for some of the things I said." Now Lestrade raised a pointed eyebrow as well. She started blustering. "This isn't easy for me! Three such intelligent children and yet the choices made are so idio…"

"Careful, Mother," Sherlock drawled.

She swallowed.

"Yes. Well. I apologize."

It wasn't anywhere near enough, they all knew that. Lestrade was deeply hurt at her assessment of his relationship with Mycroft, they all still felt appalled at the way she had behaved towards Mycroft especially, not just today, but in the previous months. Even John, never one of Mycroft's biggest fans, had started to understand the man and his issues a lot better in what basically was only a few hours spent together. And once again, Mycroft took the high road for the sake of his family, for Sherlock.

"Father? Mummy? Would you care to stay for dinner this evening?"

They all knew, even the parents, that Mycroft's use of Mummy instead of Mother was an overture to reconciliation. Father accepted the invitation for both of them, and gestured his wife into the chair next to his, handing her a drink. There was an uncomfortable tension in the room, but then a knock made Austin open to door to reveal, once again, Mrs Weaver and her daughter, carrying in a few platters of snacks to tide them over until dinner. Seeing the nearly empty glasses and sensing the tension in the room, Amanda broke from protocol and took the decanter of sherry off the sideboard, refilling everyone's glass. After a glance at her mother, she turned to Sherlock. 

"I was wondering, Mr Sherlock, when you told us about the Vanishing Ventriloquist, I didn't quite understand how the dummy managed to escape the cupboard the second time. Would you mind explaining it to me again?"

Sherlock hid his smile behind a huff, then launched into the explanation. Pretty soon, the four men were chatting about cases again, not all of them Sherlock's, and didn't even seem to notice that Amanda and her mother, and even Austin, had left the room. Father Holmes smiled to himself. He had meant what he'd said. He was sorry for what had happened earlier, and he did just want his children to be happy. It was clear to him that that was something Eurus would never be able to achieve. But seeing his sons here, now, bantering with each other and basking in the glow of Lestrade's and Watson's attention and admiration, he thought perhaps his sons at least were happy. Or could be. Would be. If only he could get his wife to see the same thing.

Mummy Holmes, meanwhile, was having a crisis of confidence, something quite unusual for her, and quite unwelcome. She loved her children, all three of them, and had once been so proud of them all. Her husband had delicately voiced his concerns over the past few weeks about their continued visits to their daughter. Mrs Holmes wasn't stupid, and she understood his arguments and even agreed with most of them. It was just a mother's heart that called out to her daughter, no matter how lost or hopeless. And in her anger and despair over that, she'd needed to lash out at someone. Sherlock and her husband hadn't known either, so that left only her eldest, Mycroft. And she'd certainly taken him eagerly as a target for her frustrations. 

"I am sorry," she interrupted Sherlock in one of his tales. The room fell silent. "To you especially, Mycie… Mycroft. And to you, Sherlock. And Greg. I didn't mean to…"

"Thank you, Mummy," Mycroft murmured, trying to avoid any further embarrassment. 

It might have been a touching moment leading further to reconciliation, had not the door opened at that precise moment to admit Anthea. With a single look, she summoned Mycroft, who smiled apologetically at Lestrade before following his assistant out the door and to his office. Mummy couldn't help bristle at this interruption. But Lestrade beat her to it.

"Don't, Mrs Holmes. Just… don't. Don't ruin it now."

He gave her a pointed look, and, after a moment, she backed down.

"Why don't we play some cards?" John suggested, and his proposal was accepted by all, although some were more enthusiastic than others.

*****

It was some time later, quite a few hands into a game of cards, when Mycroft and Anthea rejoined the others. Since none of the others asked Mycroft where he'd been or what he had been doing, Mummy refrained from it also. Mycroft seamlessly slipped into the next game, and even Anthea gladly played a few hands, sitting next to Sherlock and taunting him over his choices, poking her elbow into Sherlock's side. It felt almost normal, and Father Holmes especially was secretly delighted. Mycroft's phone chimed, and the others tensed again for a moment.

"It's from Ms Adler," Mycroft said after checking. "She is feeling much better and thanks us for our care of her."

Sherlock and Lestrade smiled, and John grinned.

"Tell her to still take plenty of fluids. I'll be happy to go round to check on her tomorrow."

Mycroft quickly typed, and only seconds later a reply made itself known.

"Ms Adler assures me she is well taken care of. However, perhaps we could all make a quick house call tomorrow? See her recovery for ourselves without making it too obvious you are there to assess her, John?"

"Good idea!" John smiled.

"I'll arrange for a lovely bouquet of flowers for you to take, Sir," Anthea smirked.

"Flowers?" Mycroft asked.

"It's traditional, Sir. Flowers for the recovering patient. I'll pick something appropriate."

"Thank you, my dear. You will accompany us, tomorrow?"

"Of course, Sir. I'll have a car round here at ten."

Anthea took her leave shortly after that, and both Holmes parents realized something that had eluded them before. Their sons not only had people who loved them, they had… friends.

*****

The card games continued until Austin called them in to dinner. Mycroft again took his place at the head of the table, but this time Lestrade, Sherlock and John made sure to sit by him, and the parents were relegated to Lestrade's right hand side. Austin and Lestrade made sure Mycroft was served healthy portions of food, and Sherlock looked on in approval as his big brother, with some hesitance and looks to his mother, finally unsnapped his rigid spine enough to partake of the meal. With so many subjects - relationships, familial or otherwise; Mycroft's work, Lestrade's work; what had happened that day - closed off for discussion, the chatter between the four men continued as it had during cards: they mostly spoke about Sherlock's and John's adventures. They all kept their accounts and comments humorous and light, and the Holmes parents mostly listened and watched.

When Mrs Weaver presented a large bowl of trifle for dessert, Mummy got a look on her face again, but was quickly quelled by several dark glares. It was Sherlock who served his brother a second helping, encouraging him to eat it as it was one of his favorites.

After dinner, drinks were suggested in the drawing room, and they retired there. Lestrade, uncaring of the company, or perhaps caring too much, unapologetically switched on the telly, finding a match and turning the sound down low. John relaxed beside him, patting his full stomach contentedly. Sherlock threw his parents a scathing look, then shuffled onto the couch Mycroft had settled on, snuggling into his big brother and hugging his comforting form.

"Tell me about pirates," Sherlock demanded of his somewhat shocked brother, but Lestrade muted the telly, and he and John and Sherlock looked at Mycroft imploringly, and Mycroft couldn't help but give in. Within minutes, everyone in the room was listening mesmerized to Mycroft's soft voice, telling Sherlock and everyone else of a little known pirate named Ring-Ear, who had scoured the East coast of America many centuries past.

They chuckled and laughed in all the right places, and Sherlock held on to Mycroft with deep affection, and once again, the Holmes parents saw something they had forgotten to remember. When the tale was finished, Lestrade got up and kissed Mycroft soundly on the lips.

"That was total bollocks. Good, though!"

Mycroft blushed.

"Yes, well. There were only so many noteworthy pirates, and I've told Sherlock about them all. I thought…"

"It was perfect, My. Thank you," Sherlock interrupted, kissed his brother on the cheek, and relocated to the other sofa to lean against John. Lestrade sat next to Mycroft in Sherlock's vacated place, and glanced at the parents. If the expressions on their faces were genuine, he decided, he might, in future, start to like them again.

When Mycroft eventually called for a car to take Mummy and Father Holmes back to their home, they all felt some bridges had been mended. Not as many as had been destroyed earlier that day at brunch, but some steps in the right direction had been made. It would take a lot of time and patience, but somehow, at some time, they would forgive. It all depended on how this would continue.

*****

Sherlock hesitated. Not something he was used to, and he loathed it.

As he stood in the hallway outside his bedroom in the dark of night, to his left was John's door. John, who was solid and sturdy and admiring, and meant so much to him, and had offered and given his support in the past day seemingly without hesitation. To his right, Mycroft and Greg, the comfort he needed and knew. He had only to slip through the door, crawl under the covers, and would simply know that no matter what, he would be accepted and welcomed there. 

He deduced, he calculated, he took the chance.

"John?"

"Hmmm?" the sleepy doctor replied.

"Can you do something for me? Something else?"

"What is it, Sherlock?" John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "What do you need?"

"I… Something… You won't like it, I think, but please?"

John, waking up a little by now, tried to assess Sherlock in the low light of the hallway falling into his room. Sherlock was clearly stressed, John had started to recognize it in a different way now that he'd seen the brothers and Lestrade together.

"John? Please?"

The doctor smiled. For all his genius, now that John knew, Sherlock could be so obvious sometimes. He rolled out of bed and took Sherlock's hand.

"Come on then."

"You don't mind?"

"Do you think they will?"

Lestrade raised his head at the sound of their voices and the light from the hall. 

"Get in here, idiots, and shut up. I don't want My waking up."

"Too late," came a mumbled reply from under the covers. 

Within moments, Sherlock was curled into his brother, John and Lestrade bracketing them under the duvet in a mirror of that afternoon in the hot tub. 

"Sleep," Lestrade growled, "or no hugs in the morning."

Even in the low light, John could see both Holmes brothers pout.

"I'm not kidding!" Lestrade threatened. "Sleep now, or John and I are withholding any hugging, cuddling or kissing indefinitely!"

"There will be kissing?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

John tightened his hold on the skinny detective.

"Maybe. Only if you listen to Greg."

Sherlock hummed contentedly. Mycroft grumbled again, but his words were unintelligible until the last few.

"Sleep well, baby brother."

"You too, big brother," Sherlock answered softly.

And the Holmeses were fast asleep within seconds. 

Lestrade spared a moment to think it was maybe a bit weird to be in a bed with three other men wearing only his pants, but then again, one was his lover, one was his little brother, both emotionally stunted, and the last was one of his best friends, whom he himself had challenged onto this path only a day before. John had certainly proven himself in his emotional dedication not only to Sherlock, but to Mycroft in the last days, especially today. His support to Mycroft during brunch and after, with everything that happened and was said, had endeared the sturdy former Army doctor to him even more than before. Greg had no issue sharing a bed with him, certainly not when those most precious of beings, the two Holmes boys, lay between them to be cherished and protected.

John figured it was just like in the hot tub. He was even wearing more clothes now, and so was Sherlock. But how come Mycroft's bed was big enough to hold four grown men relatively comfortably if they were prepared to bunch up to each other? Had Mycroft foreseen this, deduced it somehow? In the middle of wondering about that, John squeezed Sherlock a little tighter and fell asleep.

*****

John awoke the moment Lestrade tried to extract himself carefully from the bed. The sun was already peeking around the curtains, promising a lovely day weather-wise, and John's internal clock advised him it was still relatively early. The two Holmeses were still in the middle of the bed, sleeping soundly, but the only contact between them now seemed to be a carelessly slung hand covering a side. As Greg made to sneak out of the room, John extracted himself from the warm nest as well and followed him. Lestrade waited until they had reached the hallway and he'd closed the bedroom door behind them.

"Sorry if I woke you."

"No worries, mate. Time for me to get up anyway."

"I was… I was just going to the gym for a bit."

John carefully eyed his friend, then nodded.

"Want some company? Or would you rather be alone?"

Lestrade eyed him back.

"I don't mind your company right now."

They made their way to the gymnasium in silence, changed into shorts and tees, and John was not surprised to see Greg heading immediately towards the punching bag. Mycroft's comments earlier, and yesterday's happenings, made him understand Lestrade's need for it at that moment. While Greg beat the hell out of the bag, John occupied himself with various items of the other equipment in the room, keeping an eye on his friend. When Lestrade finally slowed down, sweaty and much more relaxed, John went over to the fridge and grabbed two bottles of energy drink.

"So," he said, sitting down next to Greg who was getting rid of his gloves and rubbing a towel over his sweat soaked face and hair, "this is how you cope. Mr 'I'm cool with everything, you care for me by caring about me' really just needs to pulverize a punching bag now and then to feel calm."

Lestrade accepted one of the bottles and drank almost half of it down in a single gulp.

"I can't believe I fell for it, John. I actually really thought they were happy for me and Mycroft, that they liked me. Even in the past months, when they were gunning for Mycroft, I still believed they cared about him and about me, at least enough to…"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, Greg. I admit I haven't been the best at reading things, but I genuinely believe that they do care about you, that they like you. And that they love their children, including Mycroft. And that they do see that you make him happy, and they are grateful for that. I think we were all tense yesterday, and it all just added up and exploded in a way it wouldn't have if we had had a chance to talk about it first."

Lestrade looked at him in assessment. John shrugged.

"Hey, I'm not a genius, and yes, I've apparently missed a lot, but I can tell you this. To me, the past couple of days have been very intense. You've told me things, I've seen and experienced things, and I've thought about things that could have easily blown my mind. I've tried to let it all just flow over me, but I can't deny that sometimes it was a bit much. So there was tension between me and Sherlock. There was tension between you Mycroft over their parents' visit. There is always tension between Sherlock and Mycroft. Mummy and Father walking right into the middle of that with their anger or disappointment might not have been the best idea. On the other hand, at least now it's all out in the open, for everyone to deal with and move on to better things. Or at least I hope so. I'd hate to think I woke up this morning in bed with you of all people for nothing!"

He grinned and bumped his shoulder against Lestrade's. The detective smiled back, then became more serious.

"Everything's changing now, John. I know what I said to you, and I meant every word. I hate pulling the threatening big brother card on you, but I will. If you don't… if you can't… Sherlock's attached. Don't string him along thinking this is just a game. I won't let you. And Mycroft… Mycroft is vulnerable right now. He let himself be seen to be vulnerable in front of you. I won't let you hurt him, hurt either of them."

John nodded, put his hand on Lestrade's shoulder to get the man to look at him and see the truth.

"I don't want to hurt anyone, Greg. I'm… actually kind of honored that Mycroft felt that safe with me to show his emotions. I have no wish whatsoever to hurt him. At some point, he and you and I are going to have to talk about that. Because with all the things I've been realizing, one of them is I've unwittingly hurt both of you along the way with things I've said and done. And I need to remedy that. As for Sherlock…" 

John let go of Lestrade and turned away to gaze at the blank opposite wall.

"As for Sherlock, I love him. Always have, but I've started to see there is much more to it than I've recognized until now. Actually…" he huffed a little, "… seeing the three of you has made that a lot easier. Knowing there's a - and please don't take this the wrong way! - more human and needy side to him, makes it much easier for me to admit to those feelings. Before, he was kind of like one of those Greek statues of a god, you know, to be admired from afar. Now, I have the feeling that there is actually something that I might be able to offer him. I have greatly enjoyed our more intimate interactions so far, and would very much like to explore them further." He dared smile at Greg again. "If I have the permission of both his big brothers, that is."

Lestrade turned his detective eyes on him, and John felt them searing into him.

"Good. That's good. You have my permission at least, as long as you're good to him. Be honest. If you have doubts, come talk to me. Or to Mycroft. I know it won't be easy, but…"

"I know," John interrupted. He held out his partially drained energy drink bottle to tap it against Greg's almost empty one. "To loving a Holmes."

Lestrade tapped his bottle with his own, understanding between them.

"To loving a Holmes."

They drank to the toast, and grinned at each other.

"Shower, I think," Lestrade said. "I'm sweating like an otter."

They got up and made their way to the showers in the changing room.

"Do otters really sweat that much? And how do we know? I mean, they're mostly in the water, aren't they? How would we be able to tell?"

Lestrade tossed his empty bottle into the trash and took off his sweat soaked shirt, then made an attempt to hit his friend with it in retaliation. 

"I have no idea. You'll have to ask your boyfriend about it. I'm sure he knows all about otters."

His cheeky grin made John laugh, and they both stripped and showered, feeling much better.

*****

Meanwhile, upstairs, two Holmes boys were quietly whispering, reminiscent of those nights in childhood when a small, imperious mess of chocolate curls and scrawny limbs sneaked his way into his big brother's bedroom in the dead of night, yearning for company and comfort, never rejected, never turned away.

"They have not left us, they have only just woken up."

"Then where are they?"

"Please, my sweet, feel the temperature of the sheets. Gregory woke up first and extracted himself. The movement obviously caused John to wake and follow him. Considering the slightly lower regular body temperature of your John to my Gregory, this is the only conclusion to be drawn from the evidence."

His John. Sherlock liked that.

"I expect we should find them both in the gymnasium were we to track them down right now, baby brother. Gregory has held in his distress admirably, but he was distinctly unsettled still last night, and I fear the few hours of much needed sleep have not comforted him sufficiently."

"You mean he is venting his frustrations in a pugilistic fashion yet again."

"I fear so. I do hope he does no injury to his hands."

"As if the especially fashioned protective gloves you procured for him would allow any damage to his phalanges."

Mycroft just tugged his little brother closer and buried his nose in that mess of curls. His brother settled into him without hesitation.

"Are you well, Lock?"

"John seems to be openly receptive of my advances."

Mycroft ignored that that wasn't what he had been asking an answer to. Anyone with eyes would have been able to see that.

"My, do you think I should pursue him more vigorously?"

His big brother took the time to think before answering. It made Sherlock fear for a moment, because Mycroft never needed to think about something quite simple like that, he always just knew. On the other hand, it reminded him of when they were young, and Mycroft would take the time to formulate an answer or a story, whether it was because he wanted to be certain he could explain it to tiny, young Sherlock appropriately, or in a way that would lead Sherlock to the answer by himself.

"I think you and John will find your way towards each other without pushing, my sweet. John is stalwart and true, like Gregory. He will not abandon you, as Gregory has not abandoned us."

"He was very angry with me."

"You left him. It was necessary, but he did not know that. The fact that he was, and still is, angry and sad at that should leave you to draw a myriad of conclusions."

"He left me too." Sherlock's voice was tired, not laced with avarice or petulance.

"He thought you were dead. He met someone. And when she died, he needed someone to blame."

"I hate sentiment."

"I know, little brother. I know. There are times when I do too. But then Gregory smiles at me, or opens his arms to you, and I think… it's still not an advantage, caring and sentiment, but it is not a disadvantage either. John can very easily be your Gregory, if you let him."

Mycroft felt Sherlock stiffen beside him, and quickly ran through the conversation to discover what he had said to make his brother react like that. Before he could, though, Sherlock pulled away and fumed at him.

"You want Greg all to yourself! That is what this is about! I found him first, Mycroft! You may be the one performing lurid sexual acts with him, but never forget, he was mine first!"

Before Mycroft could grab his brother, Sherlock was out of bed and stalking out of the bedroom. Mycroft followed him desperately.

"Sherlock! I didn't mean…"

But his cries were lost on his angry and distraught little brother. Mycroft had no choice but to follow him.

*****

Lestrade and John had just gotten out of the showers, dressed in clean sweats and carrying fresh tees to put on when they'd cooled down, when the door to the gym was slammed open and Sherlock, face blank but somehow still determined, strode in with purpose. Mycroft followed on his heels, trying to placate his brother, but clearly not succeeding. Before either of them could make any sense of it, Sherlock slammed Lestrade against the wall and fastened his lips against the detective's. It took Lestrade mere seconds to pry the octopus that was Sherlock off him, and hold him at arms' length.

"Whoa, whoa! What the hell?"

"You are mine!" Sherlock screamed. "Mine, you hear! I found you first! I need you!"

Lestrade quickly flicked his eyes to Mycroft, who was looking devastated. Clearly seeing something bad was going on, he pulled Sherlock closer again, the purpose of the hug just to hold him there, and soothed the younger man.

"Hey… hey! I'm not going anywhere, kiddo! You know that. I made you a promise, remember?"

Meanwhile, John saw his entire view and his hopes of the past few days crumble. Had they lied to him? Was Greg involved with Sherlock sexually after all? But Greg looked mystified, and Mycroft looked heart broken. No, this was not something regular, or even expected. When Mycroft reached out to him to keep him from leaving, John allowed it.

"But you and Mycroft…" his brother's name was spat out vindictively, "… are pushing me away! You want me to stay with John, so you can have each other to yourselves! You're leaving me again!"

"Never!" Lestrade answered sternly, pulling Sherlock's head back with a hand in his curls so he could look him in the eye. "Never. I made you a promise."

"You've broken it!" Sherlock spat again.

"How have I broken it?"

Sherlock looked at him, eyes wide with desperation. No answer was forthcoming. Lestrade used his detective inspector voice again.

"Sherlock. You get in there and get into the hot tub. Ah!" he interrupted when he saw the consulting detective draw breath to speak. "Get in there and do as I say, now. I will join you in a few minutes, and you'd better be in there, kiddo."

When he released Sherlock, the younger man hung his head and did as he was told, heading into the pool area to slip into the hot tub. As soon as the first door closed behind him, Lestrade turned to Mycroft.

"What the hell happened?" 

His tone wasn't angry, it was worried and concerned. Mycroft fidgeted.

"Out with it, Mycroft."

"It was nothing!" Mycroft said.

"And 'nothing' caused Sherlock to storm in here and kiss me?" Lestrade was still using that voice. Even John felt himself standing at attention at its tone.

"Really, Gregory, it was nothing," Mycroft placated. "We were talking about John…" Mycroft looked at John with apprehension, but a steel resolve still lined his spine, "… and Sherlock asked for my opinion on their developing closeness. I said I thought John could be for Sherlock what you are to me. He misunderstood, accusing me of trying to get rid of him so I could have you to myself."

"Christ!" John exclaimed. "You two are a fucking mental minefield!"

For a moment, a stunned silence fell over the three men. Then, Lestrade and Mycroft started to chuckle.

"Well, yeah, John, what have I been telling you the past few days?"

"Really, Dr Watson, you should have realized this by now."

Seeing their amused glances, John fell into chuckles himself. 

"Okay, okay! Point taken! So what do we do now?"

It didn't escape John's notice that Mycroft, the British Government himself, looked to Greg for a course of action. Lestrade sighed and brushed a hand through his hair, ruffling it messily. 

"Right. I'm going in there and talk to Sherlock. You wait out here a few minutes, then come in. If we're still at opposite ends, you two get in the pool. If we're closer, get in the hot tub with us."

Lestrade sighed again, turned and left. At his absence, John turned to the elder Holmes.

"Mycroft…"

"Please, John, I meant nothing by it. I merely wished to express my contentment at your impending relations. It was a compliment, if nothing else."

"I know that, Mycroft. I just wanted to thank you. I told Greg this earlier, but I think we need to talk."

"You are not abandoning my brother, are you?"

Mycroft's almost scared look cemented in John's mind the care and consideration Mycroft had always shown his little brother.

"Never. I guess I'm like Greg that way. I'll never leave him voluntarily. I'd love the opportunity to take care of him… without taking him away from you or Greg."

The piercing gaze Mycroft threw at him was almost enough to make John reconsider, but then he thought of the prize that might wait for him at the end of all this. Sherlock. His. With Greg and Mycroft thrown in, sure, but that, he realized, didn't bother him in the slightest anymore. 

"You truly are quite remarkable, Dr Watson."

John smiled.

"Glad you think so. If this goes the way I hope, we'll be seeing a lot of each other from now on."

*****

Lestrade was apprehensive when he entered the pool area, but relaxed a little when he saw Sherlock in the hot tub as he'd ordered. Of course the massive pout and the fact that Sherlock clearly hadn't bothered to put swim shorts on detracted a little from his obedience. Lestrade approached the tub, considered for a moment, then simply lowered his sweats and slid into the tub naked. It wasn't the first time they'd been naked in front of each other. When Sherlock needed extra care, Greg would take him into the shower to clean him up, and apart from that first time at Greg's house when Sherlock was coming down off his high, he hadn't bothered with wearing pants, both of them knowing their nakedness was out of convenience, not lust. Other times, Mycroft would bathe his little brother, also not hiding his bare flesh from his brother.

"That was unexpected," Lestrade said to Sherlock, who was valiantly keeping up his pout.

"You think I don't know how to kiss?"

"I think you can do anything you set your mind to. Why you would want to kiss me is beyond me, though."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and even managed to increase his pout.

"I was simply getting it through my thick brother's skull that he cannot take you away from me."

"And I know you're far too smart to think that was what he was trying to do. Don't lie to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock had already regretted his actions the second he saw the pain and confusion on John's and Mycroft's faces, but his pride refused to let him admit it. 

"You're mine," he said instead.

"As far as I know, I'm my own man, and don't belong to anyone. Especially not to a petulant little git who can't use his words to explain what's wrong and had to resort to dramatics to try and get his way."

Sherlock felt guilty and hurt in equal measures. He never let anyone speak to him like that, not even Mycroft. But Lestrade was different, always had been. He couldn't understand why, and don't think that hadn't grated on him since the very beginning. He took a couple of deep breaths, then his eyes ventured up to Lestrade's. Instead of anger or scorn, he saw concern and caring. He deflated.

"I'm sorry, Greg."

"I know that, but it's not okay, Sherlock. How do you think your brother felt, seeing that? Or John?"

Sherlock's eyes clouded over, troubled. His body moved, seemingly of its own volition, to get closer to Lestrade. He halted himself before making contact, looking up at him again to seek confirmation.

"May I, Greg? Please?"

Lestrade nodded and spread his arms in welcome. Sherlock plastered himself against the naked man in his need.

"Always. I promised you that, and I have not, nor will I, break that promise."

"I know, I'm sorry."

"What has you feeling so lost, kiddo? I've never seen you this insecure."

"Everything."

Lestrade sighed. The last few days hadn't been easy on any of them, but especially not the brothers. He decided for now just to hold the wayward child and provide the comfort he could. When he heard a door softly close, he looked up to find Mycroft and John entering. With a look, he gestured them into the hot tub. Mycroft, still in his pajamas, didn't hesitate and stripped, sliding into the warm water carefully. John looked from the three naked men to his own sweats, then shrugged and dropped them, getting in as well. They were silent for quite a few minutes before Sherlock finally moved. He approached his brother first.

"I apologize, My. I behaved very inappropriately. I hope you can forgive me for that shameful display."

Mycroft simply nodded and caressed his little brother's cheek with his fingers. When Sherlock moved towards John, Mycroft slid over to Lestrade. 

"John, I… I want you to know, I have never done that before, nor will I again. I have no interest in Lestrade in that fashion, nor does he in me. It was a childish response to insecurity."

John nodded, but kept his face stern.

"I'd like to talk to you about that sometime, Sherlock. But not now. Right now, I just want to know that you're alright."

"I will be. I'm sorry."

"Come here, you idiot."

John finally let a smile appear on his face and pulled Sherlock towards himself. They fit together exactly right, the way they had the day before and that night in bed. They all languished in the hot, soothing water for a while, until Austin came to warn them that it was 15 minutes to breakfast, and that Miss Anthea would be arriving after that for their planned visit to Ms Adler.

*****

Anthea figured she knew her boss quite well. When, years ago, she had been informed that she would be paired up with none other than Mycroft Holmes, some of the others had tried to commiserate with her about being assigned to the Ice Man, but secretly, she'd been pleased. What she knew of him was that he was a consummate professional, and that there would be no need for her to field calls from mistresses or male lovers, to hide from his wife. She looked forward to simply doing her job, the job she'd been trained for, protecting and assisting the man in any way she could, without being distracted by what was called a personal life. The first year of her tenure with him proceeded as expected. Sure, there was the troublesome little brother, but she quite liked his antics, was amused by them and the way her boss always dropped everything to tend to his brother. It was what first convinced her that the Ice Man did not live up to his nickname. Still, she was very pleased she did not have to deal with those personal issues the other assistants moaned about during lunch. Not that she ever divulged any information herself, but she could listen.

Then Detective Inspector Lestrade appeared on the scene. At first simply a new player in Sherlock's life, and thus important to Mycroft, she had tried to dismiss him from her thoughts. But when she'd spotted her boss lingering over CCTV footage of the DI, and then, later, meetings were being scheduled, she paid more notice to him. Was this the beginning of what the other assistants moaned about? But it never came to that. She spotted the glances between them, knew what was going on, and tried in a professional way to support her boss in his attraction to the handsome man, and then simply felt grateful when they sorted themselves out without her interference. It took quite some months, and Sherlock threw a wrench into the proceedings a little, but she never had to field those awkward calls, lie, or intervene. She came to truly like Lestrade, not just for being a stabilizing influence on her boss, but simply for himself.

Sherlock amused her, as stated, almost from the beginning. The first few times, there had been annoyance at his disrupting a day she had so meticulously planned, but soon she realized that this was good for her boss. Mycroft was seldom more lively than when he was on his brother's case, and in between the meetings with diplomats and government officials, Sherlock was always good to provide a distraction. She'd liked him for that from afar, but it was only after the Fall that she became more intimately acquainted with him, and discovered she really liked him up close. He was a distraction, yes, but he was smart and funny, and could both rile up and calm down her boss like no one else, except Lestrade. The first time she was faced with Sherlock in crisis, needing his brother, she couldn't really be surprised. And once they started playing their games, she came to appreciate him even more.

John Watson hadn't seemed worthy of much of her attention at first, except for the fact that he interacted with Sherlock, and therefore Mycroft, which made him noteworthy to her. It later occurred to her that Watson reminded her of Lestrade, which really should have tipped her off. She watched the friendship grow, watched the devastation after the Fall, watched the estrangement and then quiet reconciliation. She saw what her boss saw, what Lestrade saw, but what the two idiots themselves refused to acknowledge. She held back. She had to. It was not her place, after all.

She fell in love with Mycroft, professionally, during her second week as his assistant. The others took a little longer, but eventually, Lestrade deeply impressed her with his forthright dedication to her boss and his brother, Sherlock melted her with his whimsy and excitement, and in the end, even Watson earned his own place in her heart with his loyalty and care.

So when she turned up at Mycroft's house that morning at the end of breakfast to take them on a visit to Irene Adler, and found the four of them not only laughing and content around the breakfast table, but clearly paired off, her heart made a little leap and a smile appeared on her face.

"Good morning, my dear!" her boss exclaimed upon her entering the room. "Have you eaten? There is plenty left."

"Thank you, Sir," she answered, and selected a few small offerings from the breakfast buffet, seeing that they had not finished their plates yet. She sat down with them and nibbled at her food, listening and watching.

"Did everything end well last night, Sir?" she finally asked in a lull in the conversation. After more than a decade of being his assistant, she'd earned the right to fret about his personal life, she thought, and by the time she left the previous evening, there had still been plenty of tension in the air, with the Holmes parents there. And she needed to know whether to look out for any signs of stress on that front as well as work related.

"Could have gone better," Lestrade answered, "but not too bad, all in all."

"Some things were said," Watson added. 

The Holmeses remained silent, but did not even try to hide the fact that they each grabbed on to the hand of their respective partner. Anthea smiled. Things were progressing nicely on all fronts then.

"Good to hear. When you're ready, Sir, the car is waiting. I have a lovely bouquet for Ms Adler in the car, and have informed Kate of our expected arrival time."

"Thank you, my dear. Give us a few minutes, and we shall be ready to go."

Anthea smiled again as the four men left to finish dressing. Yes, things here were progressing nicely, indeed.

*****

Right on time, of course, the five of them slid into the back of a car to set off on their visit. Mycroft perused and approved of the bouquet Anthea had picked, and smiled gratefully. The trip to Belgravia was spent in silence, but didn't take long.

Kate smiled at them all when she opened the door, and ushered them in. Irene looked much better already, reclining resplendently on a classic fainting couch in a delicate silk peignoir. When Mycroft presented the flowers to her, she buried her nose in them for just a moment, sniffing their lovely scent, then handed them to Kate to present in a vase. While they all settled themselves, tea was served.

"How are you feeling?" John asked.

"Much better, Dr Watson, thank you."

"Mind if I add my professional opinion?"

"Not at all," she smiled at him.

John took a few moments to take her temperature, feel the glands in her throat, inquire about her fluids intake and lingering tiredness, and declare himself happy with her recovery.

After that, they chatted for about half an hour, then Mycroft made their excuses to leave her to her recuperation. Irene thanked them for their visit and their care for her in her incapacitated state, and Kate saw them out with a smile.

It escaped no one's notice that Irene had been eyeing the four men carefully, and grinned a little at her conclusions of what she had seen.

*****

As soon as they had settled into the car again and the door was closed behind them by the driver, Mycroft looked to Anthea.

"Any pressing business today, my dear?"

"No, Sir. The world is behaving itself for once."

Mycroft smiled.

"Then shall we enjoy that happy eventuality? What shall we do to occupy our time?"

"I actually have an appointment with Mr Pettigrew in thirty minutes, Sir. I find myself in need of a new summer coat."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. 

"I could do with a new suit, My."

"Just the one?" Mycroft smirked. "If you would not insist on jumping into the Thames on a regular basis, you would not need so many replacement garments!"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Sometimes the work requires it, brother mine."

All of them, including Sherlock, tried to suppress their grins at that.

"My dear…"

But Anthea was already typing on the phone that seemed to be surgically attached to her hand. A few moments later, she smiled.

"Mr Pettigrew has been able to clear several hours for you, Sir."

John wondered at that, but, as he'd come to learn after several years with the Holmes brothers, and especially the last few days, he decided just to wait and see.

*****

About twenty-five minutes later, the car pulled up to an establishment that proudly boasted its name as 'Pettigrew and Sons', and they all exited the car to enter the shop. They were greeted most cordially by an elderly gentleman, who seemed truly delighted to have them there. It did not take John long to understand the reason for the delight and the willingness to clear his schedule for Mycroft on such short notice. This was clearly where Mycroft and Sherlock got their bespoke suits, and the twinkle in the old man's eyes showed he knew he would have good sales that day.

"Mr Holmes! Such a pleasure, as always!"

"Mr Pettigrew. Lovely to see you again. Miss Anthea is in need of a new summer coat, my brother requires new suits, and I wonder… have you had the chance to procure some more of those delightful materials you had on hand during our last visit that would suit Mr Lestrade so well for a few new shirts?"

"Indeed I do, Mr Holmes, indeed I do. And if you wouldn't mind the suggestion, I have some lovely raw materials that would make for a splendid new waistcoat for yourself, Sir."

"Please do entice me with your offerings, Mr Pettigrew, I would be delighted to sample them."

A sharp flick of hand by Mr Pettigrew caused three assistants in sharp suits to start moving, while the man himself brought the five of them to a fitting room. As Mr Pettigrew positioned Anthea on a pedestal, one of the assistants brought in tea and sandwiches, and the other two started bringing in a rack of half finished coats and suits, shoes, and every accessory one could think of. 

While the men settled in comfortable chairs and took tea, the assistants displayed several coats in progress to Anthea. She chose three, and had them fitted. When she was done, Sherlock took her place on the pedestal, and she excused herself to Mycroft to go back to the office.

Sherlock's fitting took much longer, as he tried on several of the half-prepared suits. When he was finally finished, Lestrade was ushered onto the pedestal, and John had to suppress laughter once again at his friend's discomfort. Lestrade gave him a warning glance.

"Don't laugh, John. You'll be sorry!"

John tried to contain his giggles, but didn't succeed very admirably.

Meanwhile, Sherlock and Mycroft were over at the table at the side of the room, quietly discussing and dismissing rolls of raw cloth that had been brought in. Mycroft kept one eye on the cloth, the other on Lestrade, and whenever he winced ever so slightly, either Mr Pettigrew or one of his assistants would find a reason to take the shirt off of Lestrade in the blink of an eye. A slightly awkward moment happened when Lestrade was harried into a lavender shirt so pale it was almost white, and Sherlock strode up to him to tug at the unfinished hems, collars and cuffs. 

"Oh yes," he breathed, "it is well nigh perfect for you."

Lestrade gave him a glare that only registered when Sherlock finally deigned to raise his eyes to the older man's, and then he quickly glanced at John and Mycroft to assess how much of a mistake he'd made just then. John gaped at him, trying to hide it behind his tea cup. Mycroft looked sad for a moment, then hid it behind a smile and joined his brother in front of Lestrade, tugging at seams on the unfinished shirt.

"Marvelous choice, baby brother. The color suits Gregory's eyes like a dream."

Sherlock merely nodded and returned to the table, pointing out the rolls of raw material he'd chosen for his new suits, which were quickly approved by Mycroft. As those were marked and taken away, the two brothers discussed shoes, ties, waistcoats, shirts and even socks and underwear that would be appropriate for the new suits. One of the assistants made copious notes of everything, and Mr Pettigrew smiled to himself as he carefully placed the last few measuring pins into Lestrade's shirt.

When Mycroft took Lestrade's place on the pedestal, Sherlock distanced himself from them all by settling into the far corner of one of the couches.

"Sherlock?" John questioned.

"I… I was inappropriate again, wasn't I?" Sherlock sighed.

John hesitated. He wasn't thrilled with the attention his flatmate and hopefully sometime soon more than friend was paying Lestrade, but really, he couldn't blame the man. Lestrade was solid and dependable, a father figure and caregiver, and it hadn't escaped John's notice that the man was handsome. But John also didn't want to chastise Sherlock, not after all he'd, they'd, been through in the past few days, and Sherlock having to apologize so many times already.

"Maybe… maybe a bit not good."

Sherlock gazed at him, clearly deducing the truthfulness of his statement, then grabbed another sandwich and got up to settle near John on the sofa. John had hardly ever seen Sherlock eat as much as he had these days, and was grateful for his calm. Sherlock didn't quite lean into him, but sat close, and John could feel his warmth. It was enough, for now. 

When Lestrade stepped off the pedestal and had his place taken by Mycroft, the silver fox smiled at them. 

"Thanks for the compliment on that shirt, Sherlock. It'll be one of my favorites."

"It looks good on you, Greg."

"Well… Thanks. You better start preparing John for his turn." Lestrade grinned.

"My turn??"

"Of course, John," Sherlock smiled. "Surely you did not expect to leave here without at least one decent suit, some shirts, shoes, ties and undergarments?"

John paled.

"You mean… I'm gonna have to get up there and let them…?"

"It is merely a fitting, John. No one is trying to molest you. Not yet, at least." Sherlock growled playfully, and Lestrade laughed.

*****

Once again in the back of the car, John closed his eyes and let the last few hours pass through his memory. He'd been poked and prodded, positioned and pinned, and he'd never been so uncomfortable in his life. Sherlock had explained quietly that the measurements and tastes of the others, including Anthea, were on file with Mr Pettigrew, and that's why there had been so many half-finished clothes ready and waiting for them. John was a new quantity however, and had needed to be measured and fitted extensively.

While John was on the pedestal, Sherlock had settled between his brother and Lestrade. He hadn't apologized with words, and they hadn't responded with words, but it was clear to John that some kind of detente had been reached between the three of them. He still wasn't certain about the exact meaning of it. They had assured him, a few times now, that there was nothing of that kind between Sherlock and Lestrade, but still… Sherlock seemed unable to keep away from the silver fox. 

When they arrived back at the house, Mycroft took John to his office, and left Sherlock and Lestrade to their own devices. 

"Do you trust me, John?" Mycroft asked, after they had sipped a whiskey and given up the pretense of playing chess.

John considered it a moment.

"Can't say as I do, no."

"That's fair, I suppose."

Mycroft sighed.

"Have I ever lied to you about my care for my brother?"

"No, you haven't," John admitted.

Mycroft swirled his drink in the bottom of his glass, before looking up and pinning John with his gaze.

"I am a possessive man, John. MY brother, MY Gregory, MY job, MY world. It is hard enough having to share. I think you'll have noticed similar tendencies in my brother. But I want, I need, Sherlock to have whatever he wants, within reason, of course. If he wants Gregory, I'll let him."

John gaped at him.

"You'd… you'd let your brother… take your lover?"

Mycroft sipped and stared out the window for a while before he answered.

"If that was what they both wanted… yes."

John almost felt sick. He downed his drink and poured himself another one, downing it again. The third glass, he sipped.

"Why?"

"Because Sherlock is clearly the more desirable partner. He's adventurous, and beautiful, and smart. He can be fun and affectionate, playful and obedient, and he's never dull."

"Mycroft…"

"Compared to that, what have I to offer? Superior intelligence, yes, but other than that? Surely this is not a surprise to you, Dr Watson."

Mycroft prevaricated a little, then continued.

"I had thought you and my brother were making progress. Personal progress. Was I mistaken?"

"No! At least… I thought so too…"

"Well, if it seems my brother is determined to show his superiority to me in binding people to him, by taking Gregory, what would your response be?"

John gulped.

"Seriously? You're seriously asking me that?"

Mycroft's eyes were sad but determined.

"You are. You are seriously asking me what I would do if Sherlock, who I hope to get so close to he'll let me stay with him for the rest of his life, decides he wants Greg, my best friend and your lover, and you would just sit there and take it, and you're asking me… seriously?"

"I have no choice in the matter, Dr Watson. I cannot even hope it will not diminish your already low opinion of me any further. I know it does. My brother is everything to me. As such, I hardly even deserve Gregory's affections, let alone his single devotion. I wish for them, I long for them, but I do not deserve them."

"A fucking mental minefield," John whispered to himself.

They got lost in their own thoughts for a while after that.

*****

Maybe it was the emotion, maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the stress and tension of the past couple of days, but John was spoiling for a fight by the time Lestrade knocked softly on the door to the office some time later.

"Hey, My? John? You okay?"

John grabbed his almost empty glass and strode out of the study to the living room, Mycroft and Lestrade following him cautiously. Sherlock looked up from where he was sprawling in an armchair. 

"You!" John shouted, pointing his glass at Sherlock. "You need to decide what you want! If you want me, you have me, but I'm not sharing you! And you!" John turned to Mycroft. "You need to get some fucking self respect! How can you be the master of the world, when at home you're… you're… you'd give up everything you want and need for your fucking brother!" Lestrade made to move forward and stop John, but he was stopped by John's angry glare and pointed finger. "And you! Caring is all well and good, but you need to understand what it is you really want! Do you want your lover or your adopted little brother? Because, right now, I think you're losing both! You're all insane. I'm insane! I'm tired. I'm going to bed for a few hours. Wake me when dinner's ready, yeah?" 

John swigged the last of his drink and disappeared.

"Well…" Mycroft said.

"Yeah…" Lestrade answered.

Sherlock curled himself into a ball in his chair.

*****

After staring into nothingness for long moments, the three men left in the living room after John's departure moved. Lestrade went to the gym, not that Sherlock thought the man would be working out in there right now, but it was his usual refuge. Mycroft retreated to his office again. And Sherlock, what he really needed was an experiment. But his bedroom was next to John's guest room, and he didn't want to disturb the man right now, so he took the next best option. He went to visit the bees.

Sherlock had always liked bees, the structure, the hive, the way they all seemed to know and understand what the others were doing. The complete opposite of him. As soon as Mycroft had taken up residence at this house, he had let Sherlock install hives on the grounds. Mycroft had even employed a retired bee-keeper to look after the hives in those periods when Sherlock was too high or too angry with his brother to visit. The hives were flourishing, and the honey they produced was delicious, and even in his most hateful moments Sherlock didn't even mind that most of the honey went to Mycroft's kitchen to drizzle onto toast or be used to make honey cakes.

He already felt more calm as he approached the hives. He didn't need protective clothing, the bees knew him and wouldn't sting him, they never did. He settled down between two of his favorites, and laid back to stare at the sky as the bees buzzed around him.

Sherlock knew he'd misbehaved. John had told him so. The kiss to Lestrade that morning was certainly not good. Then, again, he'd misstepped in his admiration for Lestrade in the pale lavender shirt this afternoon. He'd thought John understood. He needed Lestrade, needed his brother, but he was willing to admit, at least to himself, that this had been further than he'd ever gone. Where had that desire come from? He'd always viewed Lestrade as a parent, an older brother, like Mycroft, and had no wish to change that relationship. He needed the man's love and care and affection, but the kiss and the incident with the shirt had been so out of bounds. He'd never done that before, never wanted to do that before. He could only surmise that the parameters had changed. And the only real change was John. 

Being honest with himself, he examined the occurrences further. Lestrade was handsome, even Sherlock knew that. Compared to pretty much everyone he knew, Lestrade was more aesthetically pleasing than anyone. But what mattered to Sherlock, what really mattered, was that Lestrade knew him. The man knew how to calm him, how to talk to him, kept him busy and entertained, was intelligent and clever, and cared for him in a way only Mycroft had before. 

Sherlock was throwing a tantrum.

He'd heard it often enough from his parents when he was small and listening at the door. Mycroft had always told him it was alright, that even if he was 'throwing a tantrum', Mycroft would still be there for him, and never give up loving him. Mycroft had taken him to his rooms and distracted him with books and knowledge, had told him stories, played games. Sherlock had never thrown a tantrum with Mycroft. He'd been petulant, uneasy, childish, spoiled, whatever you want to call it. But he'd never acted like this, willfully ignoring propriety and reason, and hurting his brother and Lestrade in the process. Not just them, that had unfortunately happened before, but their relationship. And John. Hurting John too.

Damn.

That had not been his intention at all. He'd just needed… he'd needed… 

Mycroft and Lestrade were his, they were supposed to look after and care for him. And John, suddenly caring now for Mycroft with his gentle voice to his brother, and for Lestrade, with his quiet talks, John had ruined that. John was taking them away from him, making them care for him in a way that had belonged to Sherlock solely before now. Yes, John was ruining everything. John, with his concern, telling off their parents, spending time with Lestrade, caring for Mycroft, this was all John's fault.

No.

That was both not fair and not true.

Damnation.

*****

Lestrade passed through the gymnasium quickly. He threw a glance at the punching bag, but dismissed it as soon as he looked at it. He didn't need mindless violence right now, he needed to think. He crossed the gym and the changing room into the pool area, and switched on the sauna. Knowing how much Mycroft disliked wet or damp clothes on the floor, Lestrade turned back to the changing room and undressed. In the same petulance Sherlock had shown earlier, Lestrade dismissed swim shorts and slipped into the hot tub naked. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes.

Damn Sherlock. Damn John Watson.

Things had been going so well. Sherlock was settled, he and John were getting closer, and they'd weathered another visit from the parents quite admirably, all things considered. They'd been horrid to Mycroft on previous contact, ever since the Eurus debacle, and this one had at least ended quite well in comparison. Mycroft had actually eaten food, he'd been comforted by not only Greg, but Sherlock and John as well.

John.

This was all John's fault. John was upsetting the balance the three of them had found over the past decade, insinuating himself into a situation he was not acquainted with. John was suddenly comforting Mycroft, steadying Sherlock in a way he never had before, and making Greg obsolete. And if Greg felt himself being removed from the equation, surely so could Sherlock. That was what all that was about.

Lestrade sighed and relaxed his arms, letting the jets in the tub dig in to his muscles. 

Greg loved Sherlock, of course he did, but not in the same way he loved Mycroft. Little brother versus lover, John had had that right at least. Did he want Sherlock? No! Not like that! Never! Sherlock was pretty, but Mycroft was elegantly handsome. Sherlock was childish, and Mycroft mature to match Greg. Sherlock made him chuckle, but Mycroft made him laugh. Sherlock was… amazing, but Mycroft was… magnificent.

The sauna beeped to announce it had reached its desired temperature. Lestrade moved and settled in the heat of the enclosed compartment.

It made him think of Mycroft again. The Ice Man. How wrong they were. Greg had a fairly high body temperature, but Mycroft almost burned him. For all that Mycroft disliked the sun for giving him freckles, warmth was not something he was opposed to. He could wear his exquisite three piece suits in the rare London heat waves, and not sweat a drop. He could sit close to the fire the entire night without getting uncomfortable. He could even catch rice packets out of boiling water without scalding his fingers. He was all Greg needed to keep warm on cold winter nights, the million thread count duvet forgotten on the side of the bed. All Greg needed was Mycroft.

But… then there was Sherlock. Greg needed him too. In his work life, Sherlock often made him feel inadequate and stupid, but at home, Sherlock needed him. And Greg needed to be needed. It was one of the main reasons for his marriage falling apart. They'd married young, too young probably, before they even really knew themselves. He'd been a fresh young Constable and she'd had a low level job, and she'd depended on him almost entirely. But then he got promoted to Sergeant, his hours increased, and she'd had to learn to depend more on herself, take care of herself. As his star was rising on the job, so was hers, and by the time he'd made Inspector, she was already used to him not being there whenever she needed him. That she took that final step to not need him anymore as a lover either, by stepping out on him, it hurt deeply for the betrayal of their vows, but perhaps even more so for the fact that it drove home that he wasn't even useful to her anymore, that she could do very well without him. And then Sherlock arrived. Sherlock needed him, and it only cemented in his mind the decision he'd already been working towards for a while with regard to his marriage. 

And with Sherlock came Mycroft. Another who needed. And Greg had thought that between the two of them, he could spend the rest of his life caring for them, being needed by them, because who else was going to get close enough to them to do that?

John Watson, that's who.

Greg had eased the way, especially with Sherlock, so when John appeared on the scene, Sherlock was already softened up. The connection between the two of them was clear from the start, but it still took a while before they really settled into each other. Then there were Mrs Hudson and Molly, and, after the Fall and Return especially, Irene and Anthea, who all cared for Sherlock, and the consulting detective let them. Even Mycroft was more open now. Besides Greg, Mycroft had only ever had Anthea and Sherlock. But in recent years there had been overtures to friendship from Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin, and Mycroft had not been as opposed to that as he would have been before. While glad for the Holmeses that their emotional world was expanding, that they were learning they didn't have to be alone all the time, Greg felt his own part in their lives diminish step by step.

And now here was John Watson, with his anger and uncertainty and his… care, and both Holmes men were taking to him in a way previously only reserved for Greg. It hurt.

Fucking John Watson.

*****

Mycroft settled in his chair behind his desk and adopted something very similar to Sherlock's 'thinking pose'. He sat, his back straight, his elbows resting on the edge of his desk, and his fingers steepled against his chin. 

John Watson.

A man seemingly laid back and easy, comfortable, but who could with just a few angry words turn his world upside down. Even though Watson followed Sherlock into danger almost eagerly, Mycroft had not feared, because he also knew that Watson would protect Sherlock with his life if needs must. When not on a case, Watson was a stabilizing influence on Sherlock, and kept him from getting too bored or crazy. Since John Watson appeared in Sherlock's life, his little brother's need for comfort and security from Mycroft and Greg had diminished. Mycroft was glad for his little brother, and had enjoyed that it made more time available for Mycroft to spend with Gregory alone, but of course he did miss Sherlock. And he knew Gregory felt the same.

Mycroft had not been lying to Dr Watson. Not even a decade of Gregory's love and influence had assuaged his deep seated fears and insecurities at his own desirability. A lifetime of being - unfavorably - compared to Sherlock had left its scars on Mycroft's soul and self-respect, and his love for his little brother outshone anything else in his life. If it came to a choice between Sherlock's happiness or his own, Mycroft would choose Sherlock's, even if that meant giving up Gregory. There was no question.

Though deeply grateful for what seemed to be honest care and concern, more understanding, from Watson towards Mycroft in the past few days, Mycroft knew exactly where his priorities lay. With Sherlock. As did his own. As it should be. But what of Gregory?

His beautiful silver lover, who had given him such joy and passion, who would he choose? Mycroft was, like his brother, a little murky in his deductions when it came to human nature and emotions, but he was not blind to Gregory's desire to be needed. And Sherlock was by far the more obvious choice. Mycroft could, and would, survive alone. He had before, and would again, if required. It would be painful, but it could be done.

Damn John Watson and his interference.

*****

Blissfully unaware of the musings he'd caused his friends, John Watson slept. The emotions and the alcohol had tired him, and in the time honored fashion of British gentlemen everywhere, he took a nice afternoon nap.

*****

After nearly two hours of contemplation, the three men set out to find each other, and met up quite accidentally in the first place they looked, the living room. Lestrade had finished his stint in the sauna, cooled down, showered and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, his hair still ruffled and damp from the perfunctory towel drying he'd given it. Mycroft was just removing his tie and waistcoat and rolling up his sleeves when his lover entered the room. Before they could speak, the doors opened and Sherlock, bits of grass and dirt still clinging to his shirt and hair from his sojourn with the bees, strode in.

They sat.

"I don't…"

"We should…"

"Can we…"

They spoke all at once, and all three winced. They had seldom been so ill attuned to each other. Lestrade poured them each a healthy splash of whiskey.

"Dr Watson seems to have unsettled us all," Mycroft finally said. They looked down into their glasses. Sherlock spoke up first.

"I have need of both of you. That shall never change. But while I highly value and appreciate our physical intimacy, I have no desire to infringe on your romantic relationship. I am sorry for suggesting that I did."

Lestrade cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry too. I like having you close, Sherlock, but I should have stopped it the moment it happened. I'm sorry, Mycroft. I know it hurt you, that I hurt you. I love you, Sherlock, but not like that, you know that, yeah?"

Sherlock basically waved it away.

"I do know that. It is reciprocated in the same fashion. It was entirely of my doing, Greg, and deeply uncalled for. It was no fault of yours."

Two sets of eyes now fell on Mycroft, who was still gazing into his tumbler.

"I would be willing to step aside to let you explore this and come to an informed decision," he finally mumbled.

Soft gasps followed by a pained and tense silence made him look up at last. Gregory looked like he was about to crumble, and Sherlock seemed aghast.

"You would… you would give me up?" Lestrade managed to get out from between clenched jaws and harsh swallowing. Mycroft wasn't certain if it was hopeful or full of hurt. "You would just… throw me away like that?"

"Mycroft, you idiot!" Sherlock growled.

It was too much.

"Of course I wouldn't!" Mycroft exploded. "I can't! I love you and I need you and I can't… I can't… Gregory, please!"

Despite the pain and anguish that had seared through him just moments before, all Lestrade could see now was a man he loved in need of him. He rushed over to Mycroft and pulled him down off the armchair, settling the man in his lap and soothing him. Sherlock joined them on the floor seconds later, adding his weight and reassurance to the comforting embrace. 

"My… I would never want that, never do that to you."

"John Watson said…"

"John Watson said a lot of things," Lestrade murmured. "Doesn't mean all of them are true. He's had his own crap to deal with, and he was lashing out."

"But…"

"No. No, Mycroft, just, no."

They waited until the unseemly outburst of emotions had passed, at least a little.

"Sherlock? You don't…?"

"Think, My. Really think."

Sherlock looked at his older brother. At last Mycroft answered.

"You love John Watson," he said, brushing his fingers over Sherlock's cheek.

"I do. I think. All this has been very upsetting."

Then it was Sherlock who was enfolded into a hug. 

*****

The three of them sat there on the floor for quite a while, speaking quietly about what they had thought about, what had been going through their minds not just that day, but the last few days. At some point, Austin came in and served them all more drinks without even batting an eye at his employer sitting on the floor, leaning against his lover, and having his little brother practically draped over their legs. 

"About dinner, Sir?" he enquired softly.

"Hmmm, yes," Mycroft replied. "At eight, I think, if that is amenable to Mrs Weaver. Has Dr Watson risen yet?"

"Not yet, Sir. Would you like me to wake him? And dinner at eight shall be arranged."

"Thank you, Austin. Please wake Dr Watson at seven, if he has not emerged from his room by then."

"Certainly, Sir." Austin retreated with a small bow.

"Poor Austin," Greg chuckled after the man had closed the door. "He should get hazard pay for all the drama around here."

"Please, Gregory," Mycroft huffed, "do you really think he and Mrs Weaver have been with me for so long for the pleasure of my company? Their pay is quite adequate, I assure you."

It could have been yet another self deprecating remark, but when Lestrade and Sherlock looked at Mycroft, they saw the twinkle of humor in his eyes. The last hour or so of the three of them had been reconnecting, talking about things in a way they hadn't for a while, and it had greatly settled all of them. When they were like this, looks and twitches were usually enough, though Lestrade insisted they did use words. And words had certainly been used. In barely an hour, the three of them had talked through the mess of the last couple of days. Though there would always be some doubt, whether it was ten, twenty or a hundred years from now, Mycroft could let himself believe that Gregory loved him romantically, and his little brother platonically. Sherlock was certain that his brother and Lestrade wouldn't leave him, even if he chose to embark further on this path with John. And Greg felt he would still be needed, still be loved, as a lover and a big brother, by the two most extraordinary people he had ever met.

"So," Lestrade said, "I guess now we have to figure out how to make room for John without this happening again."

Just then, the man in question walked into the living room, blinking at the sight of the three of them on the floor. He stared, swallowed, stared some more, then rubbed the back of his neck.

"What'd I miss?"

*****

The first few minutes were a bit uncomfortable. The three men didn't want to give up their physical closeness just yet, but also understood that if they were to work out a new equilibrium to include John, they couldn't do so while appearing to be three against one. In the end, Mycroft and Lestrade had settled into the arm chairs and Sherlock had laid himself out on one of the sofas, leaving John to choose a seat on another couch. After a quite tense silence, it was Mycroft who spoke first.

"Dr Watson…"

"Mycroft," John immediately interrupted him, "I've slept in your bed with you, I've seen you naked, I said some very forward and quite rude things to you, and I love your brother. Do you think you can at least call me John?"

The other three stared at him for a few moments, then chuckled.

"Well. Quite. John."

"Good. Thank you. Now, I've had a nice nap and am not under the influence of alcohol anymore, and promise to keep my temper to myself. I've also realized that the last few days have not only changed things for me, they also mean things are changing for you, and I have not been considerate of that fact. I would very much like to see how the four of us would fit together in this new configuration, but not to the detriment of my existing relationships with each of you, or the relationships between the three of you. Is there any way we can do that?"

"Actually, that was what we were discussing when you joined us, Dr… John."

"Okay. And? Did you come up with something? Something other than…"

"Both Gregory and Sherlock have assured me that they have no wish to be romantically intimate with each other."

John caught the quick pained glances Lestrade and Sherlock threw Mycroft at that, but he saw clearly that the pain was on Mycroft's behalf, not because of the loss of a potential new relationship between them. 

"That's good to hear. And I sincerely hope that that is the last any of us hear on that subject."

Sherlock and Lestrade nodded in agreement, but Sherlock looked at John intently.

"That does not mean that I will not seek comfort from Greg. I need that, I need him. I cannot proceed with this new direction if I have to worry every time I require Greg, you and Mycroft will see something more in it that is simply not there."

John stared back at Sherlock, then turned his eyes on Mycroft, who blushed faintly.

"I have already given my assurance that I will not harbor any suspicions of that. I never had before the recent events, and we have spoken of the reasons behind what happened recently."

John assessed him, then nodded.

"I never thought about it either before the past few days. Then I will trust your judgment, and my own, and let that be the end of it."

"Thank you, John."

After that, conversation became much easier and relaxed. They touched on their thoughts and worries a few times, but it was kept light. Mostly they spoke of their plans for the next few days. Anthea had seen to clearing Mycroft's schedule, and with Lestrade's secondment to Mycroft's office which she had also arranged, he shouldn't be called in. Sherlock didn't have any cases on at the moment, so was free to leisure. John called his surgery and arranged for another few days off. They decided the best thing for them to do right then was to spend time together, to try to get to know each other in this new dynamic. 

By the time Austin came to inform them that dinner would be served in fifteen minutes, the group was comfortable and laughing.

*****

They lingered at the table for a long time, and afterwards sought solace from the emotional turmoil in music. Mycroft and Sherlock played for their partners again, and that, together with the relaxed talk they'd had at the dinner table, seemed to deflate the tension that had built up over the previous days. After the recital and another nightcap or two, they headed up to bed. As bedtime came closer and closer, John had started wondering about the sleeping arrangements. Would Sherlock want to sleep with him? Or would he want Mycroft and Greg, his more familiar comfort? Or would he want to be alone? As they reached the bedroom doors, he was about to ask, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"I shall go wash and change, and will join you in your room in a few minutes, John. If that is agreeable to you."

"Of course! Or I could join you in your room, if you like?"

Sherlock hesitated just a second, then shook his head in the negative and quickly disappeared inside his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Mycroft and Lestrade, who had watched the exchange, made to move past John to get to their own room. Lestrade gently clapped his hand on John's shoulder, and Mycroft explained quietly.

"If you are in your room, he can extract himself and escape to his own room if needed. If you are in his room, he cannot."

Nodding in understanding, John bid them goodnight and entered his blue room, mentally preparing himself for the fact that while he may go to sleep with Sherlock in his bed, that apparently didn't mean he would wake up in the same fashion. He quickly changed and used the bathroom, and was just heading over to the bed when there was a soft knock on his door, and Sherlock slipped in without waiting for an answer. He had changed into pajama bottoms, a t-shirt and his dressing gown, and John could tell he was nervous. John turned down the bed and sat down on the edge of it, watching the genius.

"You don't have to be here, you know," John finally said. "I mean, I like you being here, but if you'd rather be alone or with your brother and Greg, that's okay too."

Sherlock paced the floor, hands clasped behind his back, not saying a word.

"I would just like to hold you, even if it's only for a few minutes. You can leave whenever you want, or not, whatever makes you most comfortable."

Sherlock stopped pacing and sighed.

"You make me comfortable."

John smiled.

"Then will you come lie down with me? Please? For as long or as short as you like."

Sherlock was across the room in seconds, his dressing gown discarded on the floor, and slid onto the bed, looking up at John. The doctor eased himself back onto the mattress and drew the duvet up over them. He waited. It took a few minutes, but eventually, Sherlock moved again, moved closer and closer, until he was finally nestled up against John's side. John turned his head and kissed the chocolate curls he loved so much.

"Hey there."

Sherlock smiled.

"Hey, John."

And then there was silence for a long time, as they both relaxed and drifted off into sleep.

*****

Meanwhile, two doors down the hall, the other two men had taken care of their nighttime ablutions, changed and settled into bed as well. Mycroft was happily encased in Lestrade's arms, the detective's front pressed against Mycroft's back, Greg's lips playing gently over the back of Mycroft's neck.

"My?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you think Sherlock will stay with John tonight? At least for a while?"

Mycroft shivered as Lestrade's tongue teasingly licked the top of his spine up to his hairline.

"I'd say the odds are decidedly in favor of that, yes. Why?"

Lestrade's teeth softly nipped at the juncture between Mycroft's neck and shoulder.

"Because I've missed you."

Mycroft chuckled.

"I am right here, Gregory, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh, I noticed," Greg husked into his ear, "that's why I'm asking."

"I… I see…" Mycroft managed to breathe out as Lestrade's hips pressed forward against his buttocks, and Mycroft was made aware of exactly how much Greg had noticed Mycroft. Lestrade's hand moved down from Mycroft's belly and into his pajama bottoms, his nails gently raking through the nest of curls at his groin. Mycroft squirmed at the sensations, and Lestrade let out a breathy chuckle, knowing exactly how to get Mycroft to respond to him.

"It's been a while," Greg whispered, "and I would really love to be inside you tonight."

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut tight in delight and brought Greg's other hand under his shirt, directing it to his nipple. Lestrade took the hint and lightly rolled and pinched the nub between his fingers.

It had indeed been a while, Mycroft realized. He'd been away on a business trip for nearly two weeks and had planned a day of leisure with Greg immediately upon his return last Thursday. Lestrade had even arranged for a day off so they could get reacquainted. But that had been the day Sherlock had called about Irene, and instead of heading home to Gregory, Mycroft had turned towards Baker Street to aid his brother. While Mycroft spoke to Sherlock, Anthea, understanding at least part of what was happening, had called Lestrade to inform him, which was how Greg had shown up at Baker Street at the same time as Mycroft and in his casual gear. Their planned day of leisure had turned into a day and night of care, and they had barely had a moment to themselves since then. Mycroft was glad he had taken the opportunity their second day back at the house to pleasure Gregory with his mouth, but felt a little guilty now that he hadn't taken the time to make himself more available to his lover since then. It was just… with Sherlock, and John, and their parents…

"Hey… come back to me, My."

Mycroft slumped, feeling even more guilt now. Here was his wonderful Gregory, so patient and kind, wanting to be intimate with him, and he couldn't even focus. And Lestrade was always so sweet and caring with him, always asking what Mycroft wanted, never presuming anything. Greg never had, not even before Mycroft had finally, a few months into their relationship, told him about the few quite disastrous liaisons Mycroft had had in his youth, long before Gregory came along and taught him it didn't have to be like that. Lestrade never just took, he always asked, and he never got mad if the answer was 'I'd rather not right now'. 

Once, early on, Greg had been amorous while Mycroft hadn't been in the mood, and Mycroft had pushed aside his own feelings and basically rolled over for Greg, to make him happy. Lestrade hadn't been happy, he was furious. He'd noticed something wrong almost immediately, had stopped, asked what was going on and at Mycroft's stumbled explanation had blanched to a very disturbing white. Lestrade had taken a couple of deep breaths, pulled his clothes back in order and said: "I'll be back in two hours, and then we're going to talk."

Mycroft spent those two hours in a miserable ball on the couch, wondering what he'd done wrong, wondering if Gregory would really come back. And when he did, calm and collected after having cooled off, Mycroft listened in amazement as his new lover gently but firmly explained to him why he was so horrified and that he never ever wanted Mycroft to do anything sexual with Greg or with anybody that Mycroft didn't feel like doing. 

Pulling away, Mycroft rolled out of the bed and settled into one of the armchairs of the seating arrangement in the corner of the suite.

"I'm sorry, Gregory."

Lestrade sat up against the headboard, a few pillows tucked behind his back, and regarded his distraught lover.

"Nothing to be sorry for, My. If you don't want to, that's okay."

"It's not that I don't want to!" Mycroft exclaimed a bit sharply.

"Then what? Was I coming on too strong? Do you just not want me inside you? Would you rather have my hand, or my mouth? Or just cuddle?"

"I…"

"Or would you rather be alone for now?"

Mycroft looked at him helplessly. Greg sighed and got up. He moved over to Mycroft in the chair and crouched in front of him, raising a hand to cup his cheek.

"You've got a lot on your mind right now, I know. I'll just go watch some telly, okay? I'll be back later."

Then Greg kissed the corner of Mycroft's mouth and left the room.

*****

Sherlock, only half asleep in the comforting but still unfamiliar embrace of John's arms, frowned when he heard his brother's bedroom door quietly open and close down the hall. Something wasn't right. He'd check it out later. 

*****

Later turned out to be about three hours later. Sherlock had dozed, but not really slept, and was beginning to feel antsy. He extracted himself carefully from a deeply sleeping John and silently drifted out of the guest room. He equally silently opened the door to his brother's room and stared for a moment at the curled up form of his brother in the bed. So it had been Greg who'd left, and he'd not returned. Sherlock went in search of him.

Lestrade wasn't hard to find. Sherlock knew what the man's favorite rooms in the house were, and dismissed the gym and his study at this hour of night. The library was an option, but the main living room was his best bet. And there indeed he found his detective inspector, his friend, slumped into the corner of the couch, the telly playing inane infomercials as its default setting while Lestrade slept uncomfortably. Sherlock retrieved a pillow and fleece blanket, and managed to get the inspector stretched out on the couch without waking him, pillow gently shoved under his head and blanket covering him. Sherlock grabbed the remote and settled onto another sofa, distracting his brain with a documentary or two as he watched over his friend.

*****

Morning came early for John and Mycroft.

John, his soldier's habits still ingrained, always woke early. He was disappointed when he didn't find Sherlock at his side, but remembered Mycroft's warning of the night before. He wondered for a moment whether Sherlock would have retreated to his own room, or to Greg and Mycroft, and then decided wondering was little use when he could just go check. Entering the hallway, he saw immediately that Sherlock's door was open, and a quick glance confirmed his suspicion that the consulting detective wasn't in there. So he moved on to the next suite. Softly opening the door, he peeked in, and saw only one form in the bed, a despondently curled up being. Moving into the room, he saw the figure shiver, and crouched down beside it.

"Mycroft?"

"Good morning, John."

"Ah, so you're awake then. What happened?"

While Mycroft seemed composed, it was clear to John that he was in some distress. Mycroft sighed.

"Gregory did not return to our bed last night, even though he promised to."

"Did you have a fight?"

"No."

"Argument? Misunderstanding?"

"Perhaps."

"Shall we go find them then?"

"Them? Is my brother not with you?"

"Nope. Woke up alone. Like you said I might. He's not in his room either."

Mycroft quickly roused himself and pulled on a dressing gown over his night clothes. Then, together, they made their way downstairs.

*****

Sherlock was awake and switching through channels when John and Mycroft entered the living room. Lestrade was still very much asleep. Looking up at his brother at their entering, Sherlock quietly asked.

"What happened?"

John walked in and settled with Sherlock, caressing the consulting detective's calves, earning him a smile from the man. Mycroft threw himself into an armchair, looking sadly at his lover who was still asleep. 

"It's private," Mycroft finally said.

Sherlock regarded his brother.

"He wished to be intimate with you and you refused."

"Sherlock!" came from both John and Mycroft.

"Is this still about your unfounded insecurity regarding the relation between Lestrade and myself? Really, brother, you should know better."

"Shut up, Sherlock," came the rumbly and sleepy voice of the detective inspector, who then sat up and rubbed the heels of his hands across his eyes like a child just waking. "Not everything is about you."

Sherlock huffed.

"My?" Greg asked. Mycroft rose and sat at Gregory's side, gently brushing his fingers through the silver hair on his lover's head.

"Yes, dearest?"

"I'm sorry I didn't come back to bed. I know I promised, but I fell asleep."

Mycroft smiled.

"It is of no matter, Gregory. I never doubted that you would return to me if you could."

John quietly disputed that, having seen Mycroft's state just a few minutes before, but wisely kept it to himself.

"Still, I'm sorry."

The detective inspector was cut off by Mycroft's lips pressing to his, and he moaned appreciatively.

"It is I who should be sorry, Gregory. My thoughts…"

"I know," Greg said, and cupped Mycroft's cheek with his hand. "You were thinking so loudly last night. Lots to think about, I suppose. Any chance you could, in the next couple of days, find some space to think about me?"

"I certainly shall, dearest, I promise."

"Then I'm happy."

John glanced at Sherlock, expecting derision, but instead finding a satisfied, soft look on his face, and was surprised when Sherlock smiled and spoke to his brother in a genial tone.

"My, after breakfast, I should like to take John to the old cider mill. We shall probably be gone from here until late afternoon. May we take the Aston Martin?"

"Certainly not!" Mycroft exclaimed, as they all knew he would. "I shall have a car with driver brought round for you. Neither of you will be driving after a visit to the mill!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, trying to hide a smile.

"Fine, fine! Call a driver! As if I care!"

Then he practically leapt to his feet and departed, calling over his shoulder that he was going to shower and dress. John smirked after his retreating form, then turned back to Mycroft and Greg.

"The old cider mill? Should I be worried?"

Lestrade laughed.

"Not unless you don't like cider, mate, which I happen to know you do. It's still in working order, on one of the Holmes' properties, and during and after a very nice tour, they'll feed you enough excellent cider to drown a horse! You'll love it!"

"I take it you've been?" John smirked.

"Every chance I get!" Lestrade grinned back.

Mycroft chuckled and looked at them both with amused affection.

"Alright then, gentlemen. I shall consult with Mrs Weaver about the timing for breakfast, as it is still a bit earlier than usual for leisure days, while you go upstairs and get ready for today."

Both men nodded enthusiastically and made their way out of the room and upstairs. Mycroft shook his head fondly as he collected the blankets and pillows Lestrade and Sherlock had used and put them away, then went to speak with with his housekeeper.

*****

Mrs Weaver, Amanda and Austin were already busy in the kitchen, the ladies preparing breakfast for the staff as Austin was looking over the schedule for the day, and had no problem serving breakfast for the gentlemen of the house at eight instead of nine as Mycroft informed them of Sherlock's plans for his day with John. Austin quickly arranged for a car for after breakfast, informed Anthea as he always did, and then turned to his employer.

"Will you and Mr Lestrade be joining Mr Sherlock and Dr Watson, Sir?"

"No," Mycroft said, even as he was still thinking everything through, "no, I don't think we shall. I think we should like to have an undisturbed day together."

"Of course, Sir," Austin replied with a smile.

*****

Not long after, the men were all showered and dressed, and sitting in the morning room enjoying the delicious breakfast offered up by Mrs Weaver and her daughter. Lestrade was telling tall tales of his previous visits to the mill to John, and Sherlock and Mycroft were just listening and smiling, while silently communicating with each other.

'Thank you, brother,' Mycroft's gaze said as he trained it onto Sherlock.

'Fix this, My,' Sherlock said back without words.

'I shall do my very best, my sweet,' Mycroft nodded.

"So what are you two talking about then?" Lestrade asked the two brothers.

"What?" Sherlock portrayed innocent wide eyes at the detective inspector.

"Nothing!" Mycroft exclaimed too quickly.

"Riiiight!" Lestrade chuckled, and grinned at John. Then he turned back to Mycroft.

"So are we going too, then? To the mill?"

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I… had hoped we could… perhaps spend the day here? You and I?"

Lestrade studied his lover intensely for a few moments, seeing discomfort and hope. His grin softened into a smile and he nodded.

"Okay, yeah. Love to."

"Thank you, Gregory," Mycroft sighed, pleased.

Sherlock managed to restrain his eyes from rolling too much, but couldn't help a pleased grin towards John, who smiled back.

*****

"So what's this mill then?" John asked about ten minutes into a thus far silent journey in the back of one of Mycroft's sleek black government cars.

"Well, it was founded in…" Sherlock stopped himself. "I should save all that so as not to spoil the tour for you. Let's just say it's old, has been very successful since its inception and is one of the minor bases of the Holmes fortune." He eyed John carefully, but his friend just looked curious and excited, not greedy. "The cider is of excellent quality, and you shall have ample opportunity to taste."

"Sounds good," John smiled, "I do love a good cider, me."

And the next forty minutes or so until they arrived were spent almost casually chatting. Each carefully avoided the previous night and even the previous few days. When they arrived at the site, John was amazed. There really was an old mill, picturesque in its setting, water rushing past and driving the gears that he knew would be driving the actual milling stone. As they stepped out of the car, a rough gent of about fifty rushed up and grasped Sherlock's hand with a big smile.

"Mr Sherlock! So good to see ya!"

Sherlock actually smiled back.

"Thank you. John, this is Alan, manager of the mill. Alan, Dr John Watson."

As John reached out and grasped hands with the man to be introduced, he saw the amused twinkle in the miller's eyes.

"Alex Desmond, Dr Watson. Pleased to meet ya."

Hearing the name, John grinned. So it wasn't just Greg. This man obviously meant something to Sherlock, and he'd got the name wrong. He was the only one, aside from Lestrade, for whom John had ever heard Sherlock get the name wrong. And he was only just starting to understand how much Greg meant to Sherlock. Did that mean Sherlock only did that with people who meant a lot to him? So what about John himself then?

'Don't be stupid, John.'

John couldn't tell whether Sherlock had actually said it, or if John had just imagined it in Sherlock's voice. Either way, he shook his head, grinned, and gladly took the man's hand.

"Call me John. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Desmond."

"Alex, please."

"Alex then. Thank you."

As they were brought up to the mill, which was on a slight rise of course, John caught his first glimpse of the vista behind it. From the lower side of the mill, where they had arrived, it had looked like a picture book, a fairy tale. Behind it, the lake that supplied the water to run past the mill to the lower levels to turn it, still was beautiful. But no matter how well it was hidden, the woods next to the lake just couldn't quite conceal the large silo that apparently housed the modern operation of the cider business.

"I know, John," Alex said, upon seeing his look, "but I promise ya it's necessary. Without that silo and the business it holds, this mill wouldn't exist anymore anyway."

John nodded. 

"I understand that, Alex. It's just… Well, it's so beautiful, and it seems a shame, but…"

"I know, sir," Alex interrupted, "but let's have a good cup of cider, a nice tour, and I can show ya how this place is much better than many other modernized mills and plants, and then we'll see if it still bothers ya that much. I promise ya, the Holmes mill is well better than many more in the business in that regard! And in the taste of the cider, of course!"

John laughed.

"I believe you! Please, lead the way!"

"Will ya be joining us for the tour today, Mr Sherlock? Or will ya be haring off to the lab again?"

"The tour today, Adam. I shall be joining Dr Watson."

"Good on ya, sir! The tour it is then! Follow me, gents."

Just outside the actual mill was something of a shed. Well, it was more like a roof over enough tables to seat at least sixty people, open from all sides right now, but with big sliding doors that could form walls should the weather get bad. The three of them sat at one of the tables and a pretty girl immediately supplied them with three large pitchers of cider. With his experiences in the previous days, John suspected that Mycroft had alerted the mill as soon as Sherlock had announced his plan and all tours had been cancelled so Alex and the others could focus on Sherlock Holmes and his friend. He decided not to question it. 

John took his first sip of his cup and moaned in appreciation. Delicious! Alex grinned big and even Sherlock smiled. That was the start of a thorough lesson in cider production. Alex was not only knowledgable, but funny and genuine, and John liked him tremendously. They toured through the mill itself, regarded it from outside, and then moved to the modern processing plant in the silo. Whenever his hands were empty, a fresh cup of cider was pressed into them by another pretty girl; Alex was a font of information; and Sherlock provided a near constant stream of deductions about both the business and its people. When they came to the lab in the silo, Sherlock had given it a wistful look, but had chosen to remain with John for the rest of the tour. John had seldom spent more pleasurable hours in his life. 

It was around one in the afternoon when the tour officially ended, and they sat once again in the shed next to the mill. While John had been looking around, Sherlock had spoken quietly with Alex, and Alex had spoken to some of the girls who had been plying them with cider all morning. 

"Our latest brew, gents!" Alex exclaimed as they were served. "Tell me honestly what ya think, John. More tart, more sweet?"

John tasted and tried to give an honest opinion, but seriously, he had been given so many cups of cider during the morning, he was quite pleasantly buzzed, and he said so. Alex laughed.

"Ya will have to come back then, Doctor! Bring the Detective Inspector with ya! Ya two honest men'll be able to help with the tasting!"

John laughed happily.

"I'll certainly bring it up with Greg. I have a feeling I might be able to persuade him to come."

Alex gave a big belly laugh.

"I'm sure ya can! Wonderful man, the Detective Inspector. Always interested in the business and the people, not just the cider. Ya two are friends?"

John smiled.

"Yes. Yes, Greg is the very finest of friends."

Alex nodded approvingly.

"I'll look forward to your return visit then."

He glanced over John's shoulder and his eyes lit up. John turned and saw a short, plump woman and a handsome young man approaching. When they reached the table, the woman immediately made a beeline for Sherlock and pulled the consulting detective into a maternal hug. With her standing and Sherlock still sitting, she was only just a little taller, and Sherlock's face was pressed unapologetically against her formidable bosom as she cooed over him. The men grinned as Sherlock's face flushed pink. 

"John," Alex said, "my wife Amelia, and my son Scott. Darlings, this is Mr Sherlock's friend, Dr John Watson."

John shook hands with Scott, but Amelia wasn't satisfied with anything less than a hug, exclaiming that any true friend of Sherlock's was family. Then she gestured to the hamper Scott had been carrying, now sitting on the table. 

"When Alex told me you'd be coming today, I figured you might need a little something to nibble on, Sherlock, so I put together a few things for you. Scott's going to the other side of the lake to check a few things, so why don't you and your friend go with him? He can drop you two off at the island and pick you up again on the way back when he's done."

"That sounds wonderful, Amelia," Sherlock replied with a smile, "if Scott doesn't mind, that is?"

"Not at all!" The young man grinned. "I'll need an hour or two on the other side, so the two of you'll have plenty of time to explore… the island and the food, I mean."

Amelia clapped her hands delightedly.

"Well, off with you, then! Come say goodbye before you leave, Sherlock."

"I will, Amelia, thank you."

Sherlock stood and kissed the woman on the cheek, making her blush like a schoolgirl, and then tugged John along after Scott, who was carrying the hamper and leading them to a small rowboat. 

Scott manned the oars and it only took him ten minutes or so to row them to the small island in the middle of the lake. He was obviously a fan of Sherlock and of John's blog, and they chatted pleasantly as the boy rowed. He dropped them off at the island and reminded them he'd be an hour or two, but if anything happened, to just call him. Then he set off, leaving Sherlock and John with the hamper.

Sherlock took John's hand and started to lead him to the center of the island. It was very small, but luscious. In the center, they were surrounded by trees which hid them from sight, in a small meadow bursting with color from flowers everywhere, glistening in the sunlight. As John looked around, trying to take it all in, Sherlock sat in the grass and started pulling things from the hamper. John's eyes grew wide when he saw the display. There were pies, sandwiches, fruits, drinks, salads, cheese; it was a veritable feast, and they both tucked into it happily. When at last they felt like they couldn't eat a single crumb more, they lay back in the sunshine, feeling that they had at least done Amelia's offering justice.

After walking around most of the morning, all the cider and then the delicious food, John felt himself start to doze off in the sunlight. It wasn't until some time later, when a shadow fell across his face, that he opened his eyes again. Sherlock was leaning over him, with an expression on his face that was part intrigued and part terrified. John reached up a hand, and carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair. When John drew breath to speak, Sherlock leaned down and softly pressed his lips against John's. It wasn't much of a kiss, in the sense that it was simply sweet and tender. It held no bubbling passion or blatant lust. It held none of the tones of desperation that had tinged the kiss Sherlock had laid on Lestrade just a day ago, no possession or claim. It was a simple offering, and John reveled in it. It was perfect.

And when Sherlock pulled back and John saw his frightened eyes, he said so.

"Perfect."

The tension drained from Sherlock, and he relaxed against John's side, letting the doctor card through his hair and hold him. They stayed there like that until they heard the soft splashes of oars in water, and Scott calling out their names, announcing his return. 

After a swift clean up, thanks and goodbyes to the Desmond family, and a comfortable ride back to Mycroft's house, they approached the door, wondering what they would find inside.

*****

Having seen Sherlock and John safely depart to the cider mill after breakfast, Mycroft had turned to Lestrade with uncertainty in his eyes. It was a look that always broke Greg's heart a little, even after a decade of seeing it appear every now and then. After the initial tentative start of their relationship some ten years earlier, Greg had seen that look less and less, as Mycroft, always so confident in his professional life, slowly started to gain confidence in his personal life with Gregory. It was only when something deeply unsettled him - mainly issues with Sherlock, but sometimes aggravated stress over work - that Mycroft seemed to lose his footing and those stressors undermined his security in his relationship with Greg. But in the last year, after the events at Sherrinford and the fall out of that, mostly with his parents, Mycroft had never quite fully bounced back to the confidence he'd had with Greg before. Lestrade knew it had nothing to do with him personally, or even with their relationship, but once Mycroft had a doubt in one aspect of his life, it seeped through to other parts, and his interpersonal relationships were still where he was most inexperienced and therefore most vulnerable.

Lestrade understood that Mycroft had suggested they spend the day together at home in an attempt to make up for the previous night, not that he felt there was anything to make up for. Though it was true that the frequency of their sexual encounters mainly depended on Mycroft's moods, it was not always he who declined. Sometimes Greg was the one who was simply too tired or too saddened by what he'd seen at work that day, and just wanted to cuddle. But that was where last night had been different. Usually, if the answer was no, they just stayed together and either talked or fell asleep. Last night, Mycroft had slipped out of bed, removed himself from Greg, and that was scary. Lestrade had known of course that the past few days had been especially difficult for Mycroft, and had been very careful in his approach. To have Mycroft actually withdraw from him had thrown him. 

"Come on, My," he said, grabbing his lover's hand and pulling him towards the stairs, "you need to change your clothes."

Lestrade didn't need to see Mycroft's face to know that the man's eyebrow was raised part in question, part in indignation. He chuckled.

"If we're going to spend the day here together, you're not going to do it in a three piece suit. Though I love the way you look in it, you don't need your armor with me. You know that, right?"

His only reply was a small squeeze of his fingers in Mycroft's, but it was enough for now. Once in the bedroom, Lestrade quickly selected one of the rare pairs of jeans Mycroft owned, something he only ever wore inside the house and wouldn't be caught dead in anywhere off the property, and smiled when Mycroft simply gave a small sigh and started changing out of his suit. Greg himself found and put on his favorite old sneakers to complement his own ensemble of jeans and t-shirt, and waited until Mycroft was ready. Suitably casual, he then took Mycroft back downstairs and out into the garden, from where they set off for a leisurely stroll around the grounds. The property was large enough that they could slowly walk for an hour or so without crossing their own footsteps, and it was something that had helped Mycroft calm his nerves in the past. Greg took Mycroft's hand in his again, and they walked for a few minutes before he finally spoke.

"Talk to me, love? I know you don't want to, but I need to understand."

Mycroft stayed silent, but Greg didn't mind. He knew the other man was analyzing, trying to decide what was relevant, what Lestrade needed to know. It was a process they had both become familiar with over the years. In the beginning, Mycroft had felt obliged to tell Greg every single thought that had raced through his mind in a situation like this, but the problem was that Mycroft's thoughts indeed raced. Ten minutes of thinking for him meant two hours of explaining to Greg. That had nothing to do with Greg's intelligence, they both knew that, it was simply the speed of Mycroft's brain. As they became more and more familiar with each other, they managed to find a middle ground, where Greg was given the gist of Mycroft's thoughts, and Mycroft began to understand which highlights were important for Greg to know.

"I haven't made time for you enough recently. First I was away, and then there was Sherlock, and John, and our parents. I haven't been very attentive to you and your needs and wishes, and even though I really wanted to be with you last night, and was most certainly enjoying your affections, I felt I did not deserve them after treating you so neglectfully."

Greg nodded.

"Right. And how did that make things better? Did it not just mean another night spent apart, and therefore another night for you to fret over?"

Mycroft sincerely disliked it when Greg's - or anyone's - logic overrode his own.

"I know you have to be away for work sometimes, and I don't always like it, especially when I don't know where you are. But I'm used to that, and it's not your fault. You know I care for your brother almost as much as you do, and that I would drop anything if he needed me, just like you do, and that I didn't mind spending the day we had planned together in Baker Street instead. Meanwhile, these last few days I actually got to spend more time with you than we normally do when we're both working. Sure, there was Sherlock, and John, and your parents, but there was also breakfast and dinner and music and shopping, and every night you slept in my arms."

Greg brought their tangled fingers up to his mouth to press a kiss to Mycroft's knuckles.

"And I love that. I would have been perfectly happy with that last night, too. But you pulled away from me, My, literally pulled away from me. You haven't done that in years. And it… it frightened me."

Mycroft's steps faltered, and they came to a stop. The politician studied his lover, frustrated until Greg finally fully turned to him and raised his eyes so Mycroft could see them.

"It frightened you?"

Lestrade grinned ruefully.

"You're not the only one who gets a little insecure sometimes, you know. I thought… I know we talked about it, and… but… well… I thought for a moment that you were back to that crazy idea about me and Sherlock, and that you didn't… that you were pulling back because of that."

Suddenly understanding exactly what he had put his lover through with his rejection, Mycroft blanched.

"No! No, dearest, please, no…"

Untangling their hands, Mycroft took Lestrade into his arms and held him tight, relaxing slightly when he felt Gregory's strong arms embrace him in return, Greg's face buried in his neck. He shivered as he felt a long sigh of relief escape Lestrade and brush against his sensitive skin.

"Gregory, please… I didn't realize. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

Lestrade's voice was muffled against his skin.

"So you still love me, then? Still want me?"

"Yes, dearest, always! Always!"

They stood there for a long time, wrapped up in each other, and when they finally pulled away and resumed their stroll, they each pretended not to see the other surreptitiously wiping away the moisture that had appeared on their cheeks.

When they finally came back into the house over two hours later, having stopped their stroll frequently to kiss and just hold each other, Amanda brought them coffee and biscuits in the living room. Twenty minutes later, she walked up to the open door to offer them a refill, and found them heavily snogging on the couch. She retreated without being seen or heard, a broad smile on her face. Back in the kitchen, she informed her mother that it would probably be wise to prepare something cold for lunch, as it was uncertain when Mr Holmes and Mr Lestrade would be down to eat. A sigh of relief went through the house and staff as Amanda described what she'd seen. In a house like this, nothing much stayed secret, and they'd all been concerned when Austin reported he'd found Mr Lestrade sleeping on the couch that morning with Mr Sherlock watching over him. The sound of two men stumbling up the stairs towards the bedroom a few moments later, caused small grins on all their faces.

*****

"Are you sure, love?" Greg asked, caressing the naked body of his lover spread out beneath him.

Mycroft huffed, threw his arms to the side in surrender and gave a truly impressive pout.

"Gregory! I am desperate for you! And if you do not take me right now, I shall never forgive you!"

"Okay, okay!" Lestrade laughed, and gently eased himself inside of Mycroft. They'd been making out like teenagers for quite a while before Mycroft guided his lover's hand down between his legs, and urged him to prepare him. Mycroft writhed on Greg's fingers, and the moans and sighs Lestrade received in return were music to his ears. He'd just had to ask one last time, partially to still a lingering worry, but mostly to tease. Mycroft was flushed and undone, clinging to Greg and scraping all his most sensitive spots with his blunt nails, just the way Greg loved. He shivered and slid inside quite easily after their prolonged play, and then, fully buried, completely connected, he just stopped.

"I love you, Mycroft. God, I love you so much. Please don't doubt me. Please don't ever leave me."

Staring up at his Gregory with wide eyes, Mycroft blinked a few times and swallowed. 

"I love you too, dearest. Gregory. My Gregory."

It was a soft whisper, but Lestrade heard him clearly. He kissed Mycroft slowly and deeply, before he even started to think about moving. It was tender and languorous, a slow, smooth ride to completion they hadn't had in a long time. 

*****

They did actually make it down in time for lunch, and ate with the staff in the kitchen, ignoring the smiles that graced everyone's faces. And they certainly ignored the grins that followed when, after lunch, they retreated back to the bedroom and weren't seen for the rest of the afternoon. 

*****

Austin opened the front door at the car's arrival, and ushered Sherlock and John inside. He noted the contented look on the doctor's face and the soft glow on Sherlock's, and smiled to himself. It seemed the Holmes brothers were both finding what they needed again. 

"Welcome back, Sirs. How was your day?"

"Great! Thank you, Austin." John smiled. "It's a good thing Mrs Desmond prepared an entire hamper of food for us for lunch, because her husband had me tasting so many ciders I might have easily gotten drunk on them."

Austin let go of his austere rigidity for a moment and grinned broadly at John. He knew exactly what the doctor meant, having been to the mill and having enjoyed the Desmonds' hospitality several times himself in past years. 

"And how are the Desmonds, Sir?"

"Very well, as always, Austin." Sherlock answered. "They send their regards. And how is my brother?"

"After a very long stroll around the grounds, Mr Holmes and Mr Lestrade retreated to their bedroom, Mr Sherlock. They came down for lunch and then apparently felt the need for a nap, as they disappeared upstairs again and have not been seen since." Austin told them with a completely straight face.

Sherlock relaxed and even gave a small smile. Good news, indeed.

"Then we shall leave them to it. I think Dr Watson and I shall cool down from our day in the sunshine in the pool, Austin."

"Very good, Mr Sherlock. May I provide you with a beverage there?"

"Gin and tonic for me, please, Austin. John?"

John shrugged. 

"Whiskey? I don't think I can face another cider for a few days yet."

Austin acknowledged their drinks request with a small bow of his head, and strode off to fetch them, while Sherlock and John headed towards the pool. Within minutes, they had changed, dipped in the pool, and settled themselves onto one of the air beds, drinks provided by Austin in their hands. Having Sherlock so close to him, his near naked body pressed against him, John wanted to kiss him. But he also understood that this should be done at Sherlock's pace. Sherlock seemed to have no trouble being physically close to John, but hadn't initiated any more intimate, romantic contact, other than that one rather chaste kiss they'd shared on the island. Their first kiss, a perfect one. John didn't want to rush Sherlock, didn't want to make demands. But that didn't mean he didn't want. Because whatever had happened in the past, not just the last few days, but everything in the years since he first met Sherlock, it was clear to John now that he wanted the consulting detective, in any and every way conceivable. 

Sherlock, meanwhile, was simply basking. John's body holding him close was settling his mind in a different way than Mycroft and Greg did, but he was calm and relaxed. He took this time of being close to John to carefully install his recollection of the kiss he'd shared with the doctor in his mind palace, in the huge room dedicated to all things John, and examining it from all sides. He wanted to feel that again, that contentment and those sensations, but wasn't sure he could deal with fresh input right then. He'd first need to check in with Mycroft, and with Greg, to fully understand his feelings. So until he could do that, he'd simply bask.

*****

Lestrade woke from a light doze to Mycroft's fingers tracing nonsense patterns on his bare chest. They'd made love two more times during the afternoon, and spent the time in between just kissing and talking. It was the best day they'd spent together in a long while, and he was deeply grateful for it. Mycroft had overcome his guilt, and Greg had simply enjoyed his lover. Not just his body, but especially his mind. He always loved listening to Mycroft, and loved even more that Mycroft would shut down his powers of deduction and just ask Greg about things, listening to him talk. Over the years they had both learned that this was important. Mycroft could glean things from Greg with a single glance, but would not always get the reasons behind those things right, as they involved feelings and sentiment. So Mycroft would ask, and Greg would tell. It significantly cut down on misunderstandings between them.

"Sherlock and John have returned," Mycroft said, when he realized his lover was awake.

Lestrade recognized the light anxiety in Mycroft's voice, and gently kissed his scalp.

"Then we'd best go see how they are, hadn't we?"

Mycroft relaxed a little and nodded. Knowing the other two were in the pool - of course Mycroft knew - they simply dressed in robes and made their way there. They came across Austin on the way, who offered to bring in drinks in a few moments, they changed into shorts, and entered the pool area. Seeing Sherlock and John floating on an air bed together, neither man could hold back a smile. Lestrade grinned and dive bombed into the pool, close enough to the air bed to not only splash them with water, but actually unseat them from their float and roll them into the water. Mycroft followed at a more sedate pace, and both grinned when John and Sherlock resurfaced, spluttering.

"Are you drunk, John?" Greg asked with a grin.

John grabbed his and Sherlock's glasses - thankfully they had already been empty - and set them at the side of the pool before turning to his friend. 

"No, but it was a close thing. You could've warned me, mate!"

"I did!"

"Yeah, but I thought you were exaggerating! You really weren't."

"Nope! How were Alex, Amelia and Scott?"

"They're good, very good. In fact, they want you and me to come back soon together, to help taste the new ciders."

Lestrade laughed. 

"I look forward to it! So, you had a good time?"

"Yeah," John glanced towards Sherlock, his gaze softening. "Yeah, really good."

Greg looked over as well, to find the two brothers were standing close together in the chest deep water, staring at each other and communicating in that wordless way of theirs. Then he heard the soft words spoken by John at his side.

"He kissed me, Greg."

Surprised for only a moment, Lestrade turned back to his friend and regarded him sympathetically.

"Yeah?"

"It was… it was just… you know, a peck, really. Just a few moments of his lips against mine."

Lestrade put his hand on John's shoulder.

"Sometimes that's all it takes, mate."

"Yeah," John sighed, "yeah, that's really all it takes."

*****

Sherlock and Mycroft hauled themselves out of the pool to sit on the edge, their legs dangling in the water, and watched their partners slowly swimming laps for over half an hour. They spoke very little, but a lot was communicated. They were checking in on each other, Sherlock's first proper romantic kiss, Mycroft's making up with Greg, everything was discussed, in silence. 

Afterwards, they showered and went up to their rooms to dress, and reconvened in the living room where Lestrade found something on the telly to watch while they waited for dinner to be announced. Dinner itself was a quiet affair, and they pretended to watch more telly after, before they decided to call it a relatively early night. John changed into night clothes and met Sherlock, similarly dressed, in the hallway.

"What do you want, Sherlock? What do you need?"

Biting his plush lower lip, Sherlock hesitated, then looked towards the end of the hallway. John smiled a little. He couldn't honestly say he was surprised.

"Yeah?" Lestrade called at the soft knock that sounded at their bedroom door.

John poked his head in.

"Hey. Are you decent?"

Greg smiled.

"Yeah, come in."

John opened the door further and stepped inside, dragging Sherlock with him by the hand. Lestrade was in sleep trousers and bare chested, and Mycroft was nowhere to be seen, but the sounds of running water told John he was in the adjoining bathroom, which was confirmed when moments later the water was turned off and the British Government itself, dressed in pajama bottoms and a vest, stepped through the door and joined them in the room. Mycroft took a single look at his little brother and nodded.

"Are you alright with this, John?"

John shrugged.

"Just don't roll around so much that you push me from the bed."

"I assure you, I have never…" Mycroft stopped as he saw the grin on the doctor's face and realized he was being teased by someone other than Gregory for the first time in a long while.

The logistics were easy, the Holmes brothers in the middle with John and Greg bracketing them, but it took John a few minutes to relax. Once he did, it was simple. It still felt odd to him to be one of four grown men sharing a bed, but as he held Sherlock, and Sherlock just barely touched Mycroft by tucking his face into his brother's neck, and Lestrade held Mycroft on the other side of the bed, John gave in. It may be a little weird, yes, but holding Sherlock, John could feel how much more loose his partner was at having his brother close, and he succumbed to it. They were asleep in minutes.

*****

Lestrade's phone ringing at close to 4:30 in the morning woke all four of them up.

"Lestrade," Greg answered, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he looked apologetically at the other three, similarly trying to wake up enough to follow the conversation.

"Yeah, Sally?"

"Hey, boss. Sorry to wake you," she said, actually sounding contrite. "I know you're on secret duty and all, but we've got what looks like a double homicide, and looking at the scene here, I…" Donovan sighed. "I think we need to call in the fr… Sherlock. And that means we need you here."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, Sally." Then, forgetting he could be heard on the other end of the phone, Greg looked to his consulting detective. "Sherlock? Double homicide. Looks like something for you. You up for it?"

Sherlock yawned and then grinned.

"Bloody murder in the dead of night? Of course I'm up for it, Greg."

Lestrade couldn't help but smile a little when he saw the adrenalin take over, and Sherlock shoving John out of the bed to get dressed. Of course John was required to come as well. He turned back to his phone.

"Yeah, Sal. We're on our way. Text me the address and details."

Donovan was quiet for a bit, and Greg frowned.

"Sally?"

"Boss? Was that…? Are you…?"

Realization hit Lestrade like a sledgehammer. He blushed deeply, but calmed when Mycroft gently directed his gaze to his own.

"Yeah, Sherlock's here with me. John too. Late night out. Stayed over. You know how it goes."

Donovan spluttered a bit, but then collected herself. 

"Yeah, sure. Late night out… with Sherlock Holmes. Must have been fun. I'll text you in a minute."

"Thanks, Donovan. See you shortly."

Lestrade ended the call, dropped his phone onto the bed, and buried his face in his hands.

"Crap!" he muttered softly.

Mycroft pried Greg's fingers away from his face and pecked a kiss onto his lips.

"It's quite alright, Gregory."

"No, it isn't! Ten years, My! Ten years, and I've never made a stupid mistake like that! Damn!"

"You covered admirably, Gustave," Sherlock said from the doorway, already sliding himself into one of his skintight suits as John was trying to quickly exchange his sleepwear for jeans and a jumper behind him. "Let's just say we were celebrating an anniversary if anyone dares ask."

"And if Mycroft comes along too," John added, "and glares at people a bit, no one will dare ask."

"I shall happily glare at anyone to save Gregory discomfort," Mycroft replied with a smile, getting out of bed and turning to his closet to select an appropriately impressive suit.

Greg couldn't help but chuckle a little, and within minutes, the four of them were dressed and getting into a sleek black car, to transport them to the crime scene.

*****

Their arrival at the crime scene certainly didn't go unnoticed. It wasn't often, but all of the more senior officers there had a time or two at least seen one of those cars arrive and expel either DI Lestrade, or Sherlock and John. That all three of them now got out of the car would have been a surprise, had it not been for Sally clearly having told the others of her phone call with Lestrade. That much was obvious from the sheer number of senior officers hanging about outside, instead of overseeing the crime scene inside. The teasing tittering that normally would have followed though, died a quick death when a fourth figure emerged from the car, immaculate three piece suit, umbrella, and distinctly icy aura surrounding him like an impenetrable shield. 

They'd seen him before too. Sherlock's brother. Who came to whisk Sherlock, and in later years John, away from their holding cells where they'd put him after going too far, without a single shred of evidence or paperwork to be found later. Who sometimes strolled into Lestrade's office and left with all of their case files and notes, leaving Lestrade sighing unhappily and announcing that their case was being handled on a higher level. Who sometimes sent one of those cars and his assistant, to take Lestrade away on some secret assignment, and they wouldn't hear from him for days, and nothing about what had happened after he returned again.

Yeah, making fun of Lestrade, and even Sherlock and John, was all well and good; Lestrade and Watson at least had good humor about it. But no one was willing to do it with Sherlock's brother overlooking the scene. Suddenly everyone found things to do.

The officers on scene were't the only ones surprised when Mycroft followed the others inside, but obviously no one dared stop him. Under the supervision of what must have been at least half the Homicide officers of the Met, Sherlock flitted about the scene with Watson standing by, while Lestrade and Mycroft stayed on the sidelines. A total of four times, Sherlock focused his attention on something, only to have his brother say his name. Then Sherlock would look to Mycroft, tilt his head, and say: "Oh, right."

After about twenty minutes, to the officers' surprise, Sherlock turned to Lestrade instead of Watson and addressed him.

"I'm tired, Greg. I should like to return home."

"Alright, Sherlock," Greg said with a small smile, "can you tell us what we're looking for first?"

Sherlock came to stand in front of Lestrade and Mycroft, Watson at his side with his hand on the small of Sherlock's back. Greg gestured Donovan and Dimmock over, and they quietly approached to stand and listen. Sherlock only looked at and spoke to Lestrade as he gave his deductions. Twice, Mycroft cleared his throat, and Sherlock added to his speech. It held very little of his usual arrogance, he simply recited his observations and even gave pointers as to where the police might find evidence or further clues. When he was done, Lestrade reached out his hand and cupped Sherlock's cheek with a soft smile.

"Thanks, kiddo. John, could you take Sherlock back to the car, please? We'll join you in a moment."

John nodded and took Sherlock outside, and it was only after they had left that Lestrade turned to Donovan and Dimmock.

"Is that enough for you? Can you follow up and hopefully finish from here?"

Sally's eyes had narrowed at the exchange, but now she simply nodded and turned to give orders to the other officers about investigating Sherlock's clues. Dimmock had stared after Sherlock and John, and now turned to Lestrade.

"Is he alright, Lestrade?"

"He'll be fine. He's had… a rough couple of days."

"He's not…? I mean… I've heard rumors."

"You think I'd let someone who's impaired by narcotics or anything else onto an active crime scene?"

"No, Sir!" Dimmock immediately said, forgetting they were officially the same rank at the tone Lestrade was using.

"Good! He's fine! We're all going home now, and you can follow up here. If you need anything else, call me, not him."

"Yes, Sir!" Dimmock answered, and then, when Lestrade and the older Holmes turned away to leave, found his tongue again. "I like him, you know. I didn't mean anything by it other than concern."

Dimmock nearly crumbled under the gaze of the elder Holmes when both men turned to him again, but managed to stay standing when he caught Lestrade's much more friendly look. 

"I know," Greg said, "sorry. It's just been… a rough couple of days."

"Got it," Dimmock replied, and they nodded at each other in understanding.

*****

It wasn't until the four of them had settled back into the car and were on their way back home, that John finally asked.

"What happened back there?"

Mycroft sighed.

"Two men murdered for their burgeoning relationship? John, please…"

"Ah… yeah… I guess I should've gotten that."

And he turned to Sherlock again, who was staring out of the window, not seeing anything, with a distraught expression on his face.

Mycroft took Gregory's hand and squeezed his fingers to gain his attention.

"Did DI Dimmock mean that?"

"What do you think, My?"

"I saw no signs of insincerity in him."

"And I know he meant it. Dimmock's a good guy, Mycroft. He's young and still a bit inexperienced at being a DI, and he's only worked a couple of cases with Sherlock, but he respects him for his knowledge, and he could be a friend."

Mycroft nodded.

"I shall have him checked out further."

Greg smiled. Dimmock didn't know it yet, and probably wouldn't for quite some time, but by expressing his concern for Sherlock, he'd just furthered his career more than he ever could simply by solving cases. Then a sudden thought struck Lestrade.

"You're not thinking of getting them to make me a DCI and have Dimmock take over my team, are you, Mycroft?"

"You have deserved it many times over, Gregory."

"And we've talked about this. I don't want to sit behind a desk all day, every day. I want to be out there, with people, with Sherlock."

"You can be a Detective Chief Inspector and keep your current duties."

"No, I can't. Not usually. Not without your interference. And you promised me you wouldn't interfere."

"The title would suit you so perfectly, dearest. Chief Super Intendent even."

Lestrade chuckled, but it lacked any real amusement.

"Promise me again you won't. I like being a DI. I don't like the politics of the higher ups. I'll leave that to you, okay?"

Mycroft looked slightly disappointed, and sighed. 

"I promise, Gregory. I shall let you remain a DI."

"Thanks," Lestrade said, and pressed a quick kiss to Mycroft's cheek.

John smiled to himself, having followed their conversation while keeping an eye on Sherlock. It answered yet another thing he had secretly been wondering about off and on for a while. Greg was the most experienced DI on the Homicide squad, and the only one Sherlock deemed intelligent enough to actively seek him out and work with him. Sure, Sherlock would still call him stupid at times, but the fact that Greg was clearly his favorite was telling. John knew that Lestrade and his team had a quite impressive closure rate, even without Sherlock's involvement. Considering his age and experience, Greg should have been promoted a while ago. 

He also realized that it was precisely Sherlock's involvement that had earned Greg some black marks, perhaps not official ones - except for the investigation and temporary suspension after Sherlock's Fall, but that had been withdrawn and expunged after Sherlock's Return - but still, it had caused disapproval and mistrust in Lestrade's superiors. Now he understood that it was Greg's choice, and that Mycroft, who could have gotten his lover promoted at any time he wished, had been deterred from that by Greg himself. Lestrade just wanted to help people, work with them and with Sherlock, and it only endeared Greg to John more.

*****

Though it was still frightfully early by the time they arrived back at the house, none of them felt the wish to return to bed. Sherlock was clearly distraught, and the other three worried about him. As soon as he had deduced the motive for the murders, Sherlock had gotten distracted, a little lost even, and Mycroft had had to call his attention back. They all understood that his distraction was caused by the parallels Sherlock was drawing between the two dead men and his own situation with John. 

"I can understand money, or drugs, or vengeance. I have come to understand on some level envy and hatred. I even understand bloodlust or a certain joy in killing. These men were hurting no one, not doing anything wrong. I… I am going to visit the bees."

Sherlock opened the doors leading to the garden and disappeared. When John made to go after him, he was stopped by Lestrade's hand on his arm and Mycroft's words.

"My brother needs to find a place for this, John. I would never call him fragile or sensitive in his presence, however… I cannot deny a certain tendency towards those attributes. Please. We need to be patient and give him some time. Please."

Staring at Mycroft at the repeated use of the word please, John finally nodded.

"Okay. Okay, I'll wait. Has… Has this ever happened before?"

John sat himself down on a sofa and looked at the other two. It was Lestrade who answered as Mycroft fixed his gaze on the open doors, as if he could still see his brother even though he had vanished from sight between the bushes and trees by now.

"Once, that I know of. A bit before your time. We found the body of a little boy. Turned out another little boy, same age, eight years old, had killed him because he felt the boy was taking his best friend away from him. Sherlock had no idea at the time, but something had apparently stuck about Eurus and Victor Trevor, because he was really upset. He didn't show it at the scene, in front of others, but when I took him back in the car, he kind of… broke down. I called My, and when I told him what had happened, he was very agitated and insisted I bring Sherlock home with me. The two of them spent a lot of time together before Sherlock seemed to be alright again. Remember, this was years ago, before I knew about Eurus and certainly before Sherlock remembered her. So it was only Mycroft who understood exactly what had caused the turmoil."

John was prevented from answering by the door opening to reveal Austin, carrying a tray laden with tea and coffee. As he served the three men, Austin conferred with Mycroft about breakfast, and they decided on a small bite now and breakfast at the usual time, hoping that Sherlock would have returned by then. They spent the next three hours just sitting and thinking, and Lestrade turned on the telly with the sound turned down. He received a few texts from Donovan and Dimmock, giving him updates on Sherlock's leads that were all panning out, and he informed them with each message. 

Sherlock returned just before breakfast was due to be served. He appeared far more calm than he had been earlier, and when Mycroft smiled at him, John understood that Sherlock had indeed managed to reconcile the case with his own feelings. Lestrade told him about the texts, and Sherlock almost gleefully rattled off some more deductions based on those, which Lestrade shared with Dimmock and Donovan. They sat down to breakfast, and near the end of the meal, Lestrade received a text from Donovan that the brother of one of the victims had been taken into custody on suspicion of the murders.

"Well!" Sherlock exclaimed on the news. "As I said! And I shall not have to worry about that, for it would be supremely hypocritical of Mycroft to murder me over loving a man."

Seeing Mycroft and Lestrade smile, and John blush deeply, Sherlock turned wide innocent eyes on them.

"What? Did I say something wrong?"

Greg chuckled.

"Kiddo, you might want to tell John that in private before announcing it to the world."

"Nonsense! You and my brother are hardly the world - even though Mycroft does so like to believe he is - and John knows that already." 

He turned to John. Suddenly, he seemed a bit less confident.

"You do, don't you?"

Grinning a bit, John took Sherlock's hand and kissed his knuckles. 

"I do now, I guess. And I love you too, Sherlock."

"Good," Sherlock smiled shyly, "now that that's settled, what are we going to do today?"

*****

Had any of them believed in such a thing as karma or jinxes, they would have cursed Sherlock asking that question, because at that exact moment, Mycroft's phone started ringing. Expecting it was work calling him away, both Mycroft and Greg sighed, but when the politician looked at his phone's screen, he froze for just a moment. Still, it was enough for the other three to notice. Mycroft made a quick decision, put his phone on the table and accepted the call, then quickly put it on speaker.

"Hello, Father."

"Mycroft! Good morning, my boy!"

"Good morning. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?"

There was clear hesitation on the other side of the line.

"I… I hoped… I want to ask you a favor."

Mycroft lowered his head and rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

"I already told you, Father, I am not in a position to facilitate your visits to my sister. Lady Smallwood is in charge, and you can only visit on her agreement. I have no influence over her decisions in that regard."

"No, no Mycroft, that wasn't what I meant."

Mycroft raised his head, but kept his eyes still locked on the phone on the table.

"Then what is this favor you wish to ask me?"

"I… We would like you and your brother to come to the cottage. Greg and John too, of course. Come for dinner this evening, maybe stay the night so we can have some time together tomorrow as well?"

That made Mycroft's eyes flick up at alarming speed. His gaze found Sherlock's, and the two brothers exchanged an hour's conversation in a few seconds. Next, Mycroft checked in with Lestrade, who leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. He tried to remain impartial, but Mycroft knew his lover was still hurting over the last visit of his parents and, quite frankly, over the previous year. Nevertheless, Gregory didn't want to deprive Mycroft of his parents, as long as they could behave at least civilly, and this request mollified him a little. Lastly, Mycroft looked to John. Considering John was now finding his way into this relationship, and had also been invited by his parents, Mycroft felt it only right to check with him too, something he wouldn't have even considered even a week before. John just shrugged, understanding his opinion didn't carry much weight, certainly not yet. He didn't want a rift between the Holmes parents and brothers, but he also didn't want to see Mycroft and Sherlock treated and spoken to as they had been a few days ago.

Father Holmes seemed to realize that his son needed a few moments to process his request, and kindly stayed silent until Mycroft finally spoke again.

"I will not let either of you attempt to manipulate any of us into trying to influence anything regarding Eurus."

"I know. That is not why we want to see you."

"I will not sit and listen to you disparage of our relationships and lack of progeny."

"I don't care if you don't even give us grand-cats. As long as you're happy."

"I will not be ignored, or demeaned, or belittled in any way. If I feel that I am, I shall leave immediately."

"I'm so sorry, Mycroft. I'm sorry. Please come, please. I miss my boys so much."

Mycroft's face couldn't decide between relief, longing, fear or agony. He just stared at Lestrade, who reached over and grabbed Mycroft's hand in his. Sherlock took over the conversation.

"Father? We shall arrive late this afternoon. If any of the terms are broken, we shall leave. Please do inform Mother of this."

"Thank you, Sherlock. I'll see you this afternoon. Thank you."

Sherlock pressed the screen to end the call and looked at his brother, who was still locked on Lestrade. He glanced briefly at John, then sighed.

"Well, fuck. Lestrade, take my brother upstairs and shag him silly, won't you? It'll be an improvement. I'll make the arrangements for our journey."

Lestrade spared a quick glance to Sherlock, nodding before he stood and dragged Mycroft away with him. Sherlock pressed a button on the wall and turned to John. 

"You and I should probably disappear for a few hours."

Austin entered the room, having been summoned by the little bell.

"Yes, Mr Sherlock?"

"Ah, Austin! It appears we shall be visiting our parents today and stay the night. Lestrade is currently caring for my brother in their bedroom, but surely you can pack an overnight bag for them without disturbing them. If you could do the same for Dr Watson and myself, it will be most appreciated. We shall be out in the garden. Please arrange for a car for us, we should arrive at the cottage late in the afternoon, and inform Anthea of our intended travel and destination."

Sherlock hesitated for a short moment.

"It might be that we shall return early. If certain things are said or implied. Just so you know. Please inform Anthea of that as well."

Austin nodded and barely managed to hide his smile before he turned and left.

"Yes, Sir."

Sherlock took John's hand and dragged him out to the garden through the open doors. Once they were a bit away from the house, John giggled.

"Very masterful, Sherlock. Deeply impressive. But… what are we going to do in the garden this entire time while the butler or a footman is packing our bags for an overnight stay?"

It was only when Sherlock turned back towards John and the doctor could see his face, that he really felt the tension in his detective.

"I was hoping… we could kiss again? Or you could hold me? My brother is not the only one requiring some comfort."

In a flash, John's teasing mood evaporated as he suddenly understood. Sherlock was also very unsettled by the call, the request to come visit, not knowing how this would play out. Normally, Sherlock would have joined Mycroft and Greg as they were comforting each other, but this time, Sherlock had chosen to stay behind and remain with John, issuing orders to Austin, taking care of his brother for once. And now, he needed John to provide that security, the safety he craved. John spotted a lush looking patch of grass under one of the apple trees, and pulled the consulting detective towards it.

"Come on," he enticed Sherlock, "if we're going to have to wait a couple of hours, I'm not gonna stay standing the entire time. Come here."

In a few moments, they were stretched out onto the fresh looking and smelling grass, Sherlock tucked against John's side.

"I'm very proud of you, Sherlock. Taking care of your brother like that."

"I didn't do anything."

"Yeah, you did. You made sure he had what he needed. Greg. Even though you would have liked to be with them yourself, you knew your brother needed it more."

Sherlock squirmed a little.

"I have you."

John kissed Sherlock's dark curls.

"Yes, you do. But I know that it isn't the same. I hope someday it will be."

Sherlock stayed silent for a little while, then he breathed deeply and sat up, looking into John's eyes.

"It's different, John, and it will always be different. It's supposed to be. It's the difference between familial and romantic love. You know, from what I've read."

John stared up at Sherlock, then started to giggle again, which quickly turned into a laugh. Sherlock grinned and collapsed against John, holding onto his doctor with glee, even though he'd meant every word. 

*****

Meanwhile, the scene upstairs in the master bedroom was quite different. Obviously, Lestrade would have liked to follow Sherlock's advice and shag Mycroft silly, but that clearly wasn't on the agenda right then. So instead, Greg just settled against the pillows and the headboard of their bed, as Mycroft paced the room, alternately fuming, despairing, and looking utterly lost. Lestrade waited until Mycroft's mind had run through all its possibilities and conclusions, and his lover finally turned to him and looked at him for advice.

"What do you think this is about, Gregory?"

"I think your father is trying to open a door, making an overture. From what he said, I think he and your mother have spoken about things, and he's hoping to repair at least part of your relationship. I don't think your Mum is there yet, but…"

"I will not allow her to disparage you or Sherlock!"

"Or yourself. Don't forget yourself."

Mycroft dropped his gaze to the floor, then approached Gregory on the bed, sitting down and tentatively taking his hand.

"You are so solicitous of me, Gregory, even when I do not deserve it."

At Greg's small growl, Mycroft hastily continued.

"I am not inferring I do not deserve it now, dearest, only that you have in the past. I deeply appreciate it. Even after what she said of you, you still wish me to have an at least cordial relationship with her. Your heart is the most caring and magnanimous I have ever come across."

"Not really," Lestrade shrugged. "I don't want any of you - or anyone really - anywhere near your sister. My forgiveness doesn't stretch that far. Although, I can somewhat see that maybe it isn't entirely her fault that she is how she is."

Mycroft chuckled ruefully.

"And there you prove exactly what I said. You truly are a most magnificent man, Gregory."

"Sherlock would say it's just more proof of my stupidity."

"And we all know he would be lying."

Mycroft rose and positioned himself at the large window overlooking the back garden.

"Look at them."

Lestrade got up and moved over to his lover, embracing him from behind as he looked out and found what Mycroft meant. Sherlock and John were just barely visible from the window, reclined closely together under one of the apple trees.

"I fear what this visit might do to Sherlock. After the last few days and this morning, his mind is not the most stable. Father may have good intentions, but Mother… I doubt it will be good for him."

Greg squeezed Mycroft a little tighter.

"Do you think… don't get me wrong, please, but do you think that maybe we've been underestimating him a little bit lately? Been a bit too overprotective?"

Mycroft remained silent.

"He called when he was troubled by the situation with Irene. He declared himself to John. He stepped up and defended you to your parents, and he took responsibility just now. And this morning, again, at the crime scene, he recognized the signs, told us what he needed, and still managed to do what he was called out for. I think he's stronger for everything that's been happening, and maybe… maybe we should give him credit for that."

They stayed silent for a little while longer.

"I am very proud of him, Gregory, very proud. I just can't help but worry."

"I know, love. Come on, come here."

Lestrade pulled Mycroft over to the bed and positioned them comfortably. Mycroft laid back and closed his eyes, while Greg picked up a book, turned to a random page, and started reading out loud. Mycroft knew the book by heart, of course, and they both knew it did not matter at all where Greg started. Mycroft just wanted to hear his voice. Lestrade could have talked about the weather, of football, or read out recipes; Mycroft just needed his voice to soothe him. 

*****

Austin listened quietly at the door, and heard Mr Lestrade's dulcet tones through the thick wood. He nodded to himself and then retreated to the laundry room. There were plenty of clean clothes and freshly pressed suits there for both gentlemen for a night away. He quickly packed a bag, and then went in search of suitable attire for Mr Sherlock and Dr Watson.

*****

It was nearly two hours later that they were informed the car had arrived. All four men freshened up a little. Sherlock and Mycroft especially changed into what the other two saw as their armor, bespoke clothes, while Greg and John decided to go the other way, dressing in jeans and simple shirts, a small act of defiance. When they assembled in the downstairs hall, Mycroft looked almost surprised to find Anthea there, eyes glued to her phone and leaning casually on what John was certain was a centuries' old hall table, while two footmen carried out clothes' bags and put them carefully in the car under Austin's direction. Mrs Weaver appeared to hand Lestrade a small hamper, muttering something about it holding some little tidbits for the journey.

"Anthea? Some urgent business?" Mycroft asked.

"No, Sir. I shall inform you of current matters in the car."

"In the car? Are you joining us?"

She gave him a look that would have withered lesser men into nothingness, but amused Mycroft Holmes.

"I see," he smiled, then paused. "Thank you, my dear."

"I can have a helicopter there in less than twenty minutes, Sir, if anything comes up that requires you being taken away from there. Anything."

"Yes, my dear, I did understand."

They all did. The four of them were looking out for each other, yes, but they were not alone. Austin would have known exactly what clothes to pack for all of them to make them feel comfortable and more in control of the situation; Mrs Weaver made sure they had something to eat and drink in case it went badly; and Anthea was not about to let her boss and those he loved most enter into the lion's den alone, already having planned an escape route. Several, if she were honest.

*****

The drive itself was uneventful.

Sherlock spent quite some time on his phone, and eventually fell asleep on John's shoulder. Lestrade tuned everyone out as soon as they departed, and was dozing lightly against Mycroft as Anthea informed her boss of some minor matters that both were certain would not jeopardize nation security should these other three hear them. Other matters she simply showed Mycroft on her phone, letting him read them in silence. It was while she was relaying the thirty-seventh unimportant meeting request to Mycroft that she noticed his eyes gleaming at Gregory, and she actually looked around.

Sherlock and Lestrade were out for the count. Watson was dividing his time between looking out the window and looking at Sherlock, and she had lost her boss' attention to staring at his sleeping lover some time ago, it seemed. Good. Things were still progressing well. And she would ensure they would continue to, even if that meant facing Mrs Holmes.

Anthea switched from business to pleasure on her phone, and spent a little time setting up traps for Sherlock in their games.

*****

When the car arrived, it was Father who greeted them at the door. Greg had exited the car first, Mycroft following close behind.

"Mycroft!" Father Holmes exclaimed upon seeing his eldest child, approaching him. The old man hesitated between a handshake and a hug, but settled on a short hug upon reaching his son. They all understood greeting Mycroft first was just a small attempt at making up for the neglect of him in the past year, and though it was small, the gesture was appreciated. Mycroft accepted the hug, and carefully replied: "Father."

"And Greg. Thank you. For coming. And…"

Lestrade shook the man's hand, seeing the lines etching his face and feeling a little for how difficult this must be for the older man.

"Sir."

Father Holmes looked a little pained at the formal address - Greg had called him Father before all this dreadfulness - but accepted it as the warning it was. The old man turned to his younger son. Sherlock grasped John's hand, nodded to his father, and stayed firmly at John's side. 

"Thank you for coming, Sherlock. And you, Dr Watson."

"Mr Holmes," John nodded back to the old man. 

"Please, do come in, all of you…" Father started, and stopped when he saw Anthea exiting the car. 

"Ah, yes," Mycroft said, "we shall need a room for Anthea as well, Father. She shall be staying with us. I trust this will not be a problem?"

Father looked a little stricken, but then straightened himself. 

"Of course not. It will be a pleasure to have you with us, Miss Anthea."

"Mr Holmes," she nodded, barely looking up from her phone.

"As I said, please do come in."

They made it into the front hallway before Sherlock spoke acerbically.

"And how is Mother?"

The eldest Holmes slumped just a little, then replied.

"Please. Your old rooms have been prepared for you. Miss Anthea, please take your pick of any room left, and I shall see to it it's made up for you."

Anthea answered without pause.

"I shall take the room across from Mr Holmes and Mr Lestrade, Sir. If you could just provide linens, I shall happily care for my own comfort."

Mycroft smiled softly. Though she had never been there before, of course Anthea knew the layout of the cottage, and which room to pick to be closest to himself and Gregory. It was her job, after all.

John and Greg, being the most normal of the bunch, moved to the trunk of the car and pulled out their bags, transporting them to their rooms with help from the driver. Before he left, Anthea had a word with said driver, and Mycroft, Greg and Sherlock at least knew that the man would be spending the night in the car, parked in a secluded spot not far from the cottage, waiting for either Anthea or Mycroft to call him back. In the past, such a thing would have made Lestrade uncomfortable, but after all these years he was used to it. Not only was it additional security for Mycroft, he'd also had a talk with one of the drivers once, in the beginning, who'd told him quite frankly - maybe a bit too frankly - that none of the drivers minded such a thing. Not only did they feel honored to be on Mr Holmes' protection detail, but they were also paid so handsomely for it, that they had plenty to look after their family, and, if treated wisely, enough to retire quite early and spend the rest of their days in leisure.

The Holmes boys and their partners - and Anthea was included in that description - took some time in their allotted rooms before making their way back downstairs to find the parents. They found them in the main drawing room, where Father was preparing drinks for the company. They had not expected the sight of Mother Holmes though. She was seated in an armchair near the open doors leading to the cottage garden, drink in hand. She looked like she had aged ten years since they had seen her a few days earlier. She stood and greeted them upon their arrival.

"Mycroft. Sherlock. Greg. John," she hesitated a little, "Miss Anthea. Thank you for joining us."

She received two 'Mother's and three 'Mrs Holmes's in return. There were no hugs, handshakes or kisses, and they all settled into an uncomfortable silence, which Father tried to break by exclaiming: "Drinks for everyone!" with false cheer. They all took seats and accepted glasses, and the silence continued for a while, until Father finally spoke again.

"How are things at Scotland Yard, Greg?"

"Well enough, sir, although I have had the last few days off due to family matters."

The old man accepted the barb, and nodded.

"Good, that's good. Glad to hear it. And John? Any interesting cases?"

"Nothing new since the last time we saw you, Mr Holmes."

They all silently agreed not to mention the case they'd been called out for that morning, due to its unfortunate parallels that had caused Sherlock upset.

"Right. Of course."

Mycroft sighed.

"Must we engage in meaningless small talk? I would much prefer we turn to the matter at hand and be done with it. Why are we here?"

To their surprise, it was Mummy who answered.

"Your father and I have had much to speak about. None of it very pleasant. I have, it appears, made several mistakes with my children, and refused to admit to it. I do acknowledge it now, however. I cannot apologize for each and every single one, but I do apologize. Especially to you, Mycroft. I do not expect you to forgive me, but I hope, for the sake of the family, for your father, that we can attempt to mend some fences at least."

The five younger people assessed the woman, and found her to be sincere. Mycroft and Sherlock stared at each other for a bit, then nodded.

"Very well," Mycroft said. "Thank you, Mummy."

John prodded Sherlock in the side with his elbow, and the consulting detective rolled his eyes and sighed.

"How are your rose bushes this summer, Mummy?"

The old woman gave them both a tentative smile.

"They are particularly lush this year, Sherlock. Would you like to come out and see?"

Grateful for the chance to escape the current oppressive setting, they all rose and trouped out into the garden, where Mummy started talking about her roses, and Father soon chimed in with descriptions of some of the work they had done in the garden over the past few years. John and Greg engaged in the conversation while Mycroft and Sherlock mostly stayed silent and only interjected a comment now and then, but it was much better than it had been just minutes before. Anthea stayed in the background and surveyed.

After nearly an hour out in the garden, it was a much more friendly and relaxed group that returned to the sitting room for fresh drinks. Lestrade was telling the parents about some new additions he and Mycroft had made to their house, a few new paintings and statues that they wouldn't have seen a few days ago during their disastrous visit, deliberately getting the names and descriptions wrong to draw Mycroft into the conversation to correct him. Sherlock noticed John getting a bit melancholy, and accurately deduced his friend - boyfriend? - was remembering the last time he'd been at this cottage, with Mary at Christmas. Deciding to make a sacrifice to cheer John up, Sherlock pulled out a photo album with pictures of himself and Mycroft in their youth, and suffered through the embarrassment of the stories that brought out. For a moment, Mycroft looked ready to kill his little brother, after all, it meant embarrassment for him as well, but then took a good look at John and nodded in understanding and approval. They all noted the absence of any pictures relating to Eurus, something Mycroft had taken care of all those years ago to protect his little brother's deletion of his memories of her, and no one mentioned her.

Some time later, Mrs Holmes announced she was going to the kitchen to finalize dinner. The offers to help from Anthea, Greg and John were politely declined, and the old woman retreated. Mr Holmes watched her go, and then turned back to his guests.

"She just needs some time. Thank you, though, all of you."

Sherlock brought out a deck of cards, and they all played a few hands while waiting for dinner, even Anthea. But when dinner was nearly ready, Anthea had a quiet word with Mycroft and then disappeared to the kitchen.

"Mrs Holmes?"

The old woman startled. She had been staring out the window, thinking, and hadn't heard anyone approach. Anthea caught several emotions on her face, pain, relief and gratitude amongst them, and softened a little.

"Yes, dear?"

"I'm afraid I have some work to do, and would not want to disturb your dinner. Mrs Weaver provided a hamper for the drive here, but we did not partake of it. Mr Lestrade put it in the refrigerator. I'll just take that and bring it out to the car where Mr Davies and I can share a bite while we work in private."

Mrs Holmes understood at once that Mycroft's car was still there, parked a discrete distance away, in case Mycroft felt the need to leave; that Mr Davies was the driver; and that Anthea was sufficiently satisfied with the current situation to leave her employer for a little while with his family, and was giving them some time to themselves. She nodded.

"I prepared too much food, I think. If you give me a few moments, I can prepare some plates for you and Mr Davies if you wish."

Anthea smiled.

"That would be lovely, Mrs Holmes, thank you."

"And please do let Mr Davies know that there is a room available for him as well, and he does not have to spend the night in the car."

"I shall tell him, but I already know he will not accept. Thank you for the offer, though."

Anthea left the kitchen to speak quietly with Mycroft again, who looked a little pleased and nodded in agreement. A few minutes later, Mrs Holmes came out with the hamper, now carrying a couple of steaming hot bowls on top, and handed it to Anthea.

"Thank you, dear," she said gratefully.

"Thank you, Mrs Holmes."

And then Anthea nodded to them all and left the house. Sherlock and Greg understood, but John and Father raised questioning eyebrows.

"Anthea has some work to do," Mycroft said. "She shall return for the night when she is ready to retire."

*****

Dinner was, all in all, a pleasant affair. In between praise for the food, the four men recounted past tales as the parents mostly listened, even though especially Greg and John did try to engage them in the conversation. Once again, the elder Holmeses saw a new side to their sons. They still traded barbs and insults with each other, but there was absolutely no malice in them, and they both seemed to enjoy testing their wits against each other. But mostly, they saw Greg and John interact with their sons, a small touch here, a smile there, and saw their sons relax and smile back at every little gesture. By the time dinner was reaching its conclusion, each Holmes brother had succumbed to at least three full belly laughs, their eyes twinkling with mirth, and that was something they had rarely, if ever, seen.

John and Greg of course offered to help with the clean up, and this time, Mrs Holmes accepted. They each made several trips, and by the time the last of the porcelain and silver was carefully rinsed and stowed away in the dishwasher, Mrs Holmes looked up at the two men with misty eyes. 

"Thank you for making my sons happy," she said quietly.

Slightly taken aback, the two men glanced at each other.

"Thank you for today, Mrs Holmes. Mummy." Lestrade offered.

"Yes. Thank you," John repeated.

She nodded, and they went back out to the sitting room. There, they found Mycroft and Sherlock engaged in another silent battle as Father looked on, amused.

"Okay," Lestrade sighed, "what is it now?"

Sherlock huffed before answering.

"Pictionary or Monopoly?"

Lestrade and John grinned at each other, before turning to the open cabinet the brothers were standing next to and surveying the contents. Then they replied in chorus.

"Trivial Pursuit!"

Mycroft smirked and Sherlock groaned, but they took out the game and set it up. They decided to play in teams, which were obvious - Mr and Mrs Holmes; Sherlock and John; Mycroft and Lestrade - just as it was obvious that Mycroft (and Greg) would win. They had just started their third round when Anthea came back into the house, put away the remains of the hamper and dinner, had a word with Mycroft, and then settled back to watch and listen with a smirk on her face. After that round and a final drink, it was time for bed.

*****

John was a little apprehensive. He'd used the bathroom and changed into sleepwear, but then wasn't certain of the right course of action. He was clearly expected to share Sherlock's old room with him, but didn't know whether Sherlock would be open to it, whether he would need his space. He was therefore a little surprised when he entered the room and found Sherlock lounging in the bed, the sheets turned down, clearly waiting for his doctor.

Seeing him falter, Sherlock smiled and patted the bed.

"Come on, John. Lie down."

Doing as he was told, John slid onto the mattress and smiled a little when Sherlock curled around him from behind, tucking the doctor into his taller frame possessively. Still, John couldn't help but ask.

"Is this okay? I mean, for the night? I can sleep somewhere else if you'd rather?"

"Do not be foolish, John. This is where you belong."

The short army doctor melted at that proclamation, and when he fell asleep, he knew that this time, he would wake up with Sherlock still in bed with him.

*****

In another room, Lestrade stretched out next to Mycroft, and reached out his hand to find Mycroft's fingers.

"You okay?" he asked.

He waited patiently for an answer.

"Today went… differently from what I expected."

"Yeah, I know. You did really well, though. Sherlock too."

"Do you think it is genuine?"

Lestrade took a moment to think about it, to show Mycroft he wasn't just trying to appease him.

"I think so. But only time will tell. Let's first see what they say tomorrow, yeah?"

Mycroft played with Lestrade's fingers while he thought.

"You expect them to bring up our sister tomorrow."

Greg sighed.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. In some way or another. I don't know for what yet, though."

Lestrade turned over onto his side, facing Mycroft. He did not release his fingers, but placed his other hand over Mycroft's heart. 

"I think you are right," Mycroft finally replied. 

"We'll deal with it when it comes. Get some sleep, love. I'm proud of you."

Greg was already half asleep when Mycroft's answer finally came. 

"Thank you, Gregory. I love you."

*****

Lestrade woke to the bedroom door opening in the middle of the night, and smirked to himself. He used to sleep in the nude, and enjoyed it, but had learned in the last ten years that if he wanted to avoid embarrassment, he should wear at least something to bed. Usually, it was Sherlock, but the lighter tread and the feminine scent told him it was the only other person who could and would intrude on them in slumber. He turned over and watched the woman in the soft light from the hallway.

"Hey, Anthea. Urgent?"

"Sorry, Greg."

Lestrade gave her a half smile to show he didn't blame her, then used his hand still lying on Mycroft's chest to gently shake his lover awake.

"My? My, wake up."

There were three people in the world who could approach Mycroft Holmes in sleep without his body warning him to wake instantly. Sherlock, Gregory, and Anthea. With two of those three there, it took him an adorable few seconds to shake off sleep. 

"What? What is it?"

He peered through half lidded eyes to recognize his lover and his faithful assistant.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, Sir. It's Libya, Sir."

Mycroft squinted, sighed, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Gregory held out his robe for him as he got up, and Mycroft stuffed his feet into his slippers as Greg slipped the robe up his outstretched arms, and Mycroft yawned to clear his head.

"Coffee?" Greg asked.

"Go back to sleep, my dearest," Mycroft told him. "Anthea and I will retreat downstairs and fend for ourselves. But thank you."

Lestrade slid back into bed.

"Wake me if you've got to leave, yeah?"

"I will."

Mycroft had learned the hard way that Gregory did not like to wake up alone to find Mycroft gone. He'd much rather be woken up than find a text message or note saying Mycroft had had to go to work unexpectedly. In the beginning, that had brought on some fierce arguments and cold shoulders, and now, Mycroft always woke Gregory if he had to leave. Lestrade still always asked, though. Mycroft bent down to kiss Gregory's forehead.

"Sleep, my love."

Lestrade huffed and returned to slumber.

*****

John woke to someone fidgeting beside him. He took a few moments to recall his situation. The Holmes' cottage. Sherlock's bed. Right.

"John. You are awake."

"Barely," John yawned. "What time is it?"

"Nearly five."

"Five?! Sherlock…"

"John, please."

"Alright! Okay…"

John blinked, and let Sherlock drag him out of bed and down the hallway. When Sherlock opened the door to Mycroft's room, they were both surprised to find only Greg there, turning over to see who had disturbed his sleep this time.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked sleepily.

"Where is my brother?"

Lestrade yawned.

"Downstairs with Anthea. Something about… Libya?"

"Ah," Sherlock replied, as John frowned.

"Sorry, kiddo," Lestrade said quietly. "Want to stay here anyway?"

Sherlock nodded, and John, as always, followed. Seconds later, the three of them were settled in the bed, Sherlock in the middle, hanging on to Lestrade as John lay close behind him. Sherlock was asleep again in seconds. Greg, still only half awake, leaned up to peer over Sherlock's form to John, shrugging apologetically. But John was beginning to understand. It wasn't always like this. This was stress, mostly familial, and after a few days of intimate contact, Sherlock would be back to his normal distant self. He did wonder what that would mean for their relationship, but he certainly did not blame Greg for Sherlock's dependence now. He gave the older man a smile, and settled back into sleep himself.

*****

Mummy Holmes had always been an early riser, and, with her sons in the house, could not resist checking in on them. Her husband, used to this by now, blinked blearily as his wife ushered him out of bed. The first room they came to was Sherlock's, and she frowned to find it empty. As she moved on down the hallway, she saw Anthea's door was open, and a quick glance told her that room was empty too. She turned to face Mycroft's door.

Lestrade woke yet again to the door of his bedroom opening. In some ways, being such a light sleeper was a curse, but in others, he was grateful for it. He never slept through a midnight call about a crime scene, seldom missed Mycroft having to leave for work, or Sherlock needing attention. This time though, he wished he could have pretended to still be asleep.

Mrs Holmes was standing in the doorway, her husband behind her, and looked at him with trepidation. Before he could get his wits together enough to offer an explanation, she turned and left, dragging her husband with her. Greg sighed, rubbing his eyes to wake himself up. Sherlock woke at the movement, as did John. 

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Your Mum saw us. She was standing in the doorway. Your Dad too."

"Well, fuck," John summarized eloquently in his still sleepy state.

But Sherlock leapt out of the bed.

"She'll disturb Mycroft, which is not good."

"Damn," Greg muttered, he and John also getting out of bed to follow the consulting detective.

Luckily, Sherlock knew his brother better than his parents did, and made it to the door of the study before them, blocking their way. 

"Mother, Father, don't," he warned them.

"Get out of my way, boy," Mother practically hissed.

"Not a chance," John breathed back, coming to stand beside Sherlock with his arms crossed over his chest.

Mrs Holmes glared at them, then turned to be confronted with Lestrade, defiance in his eyes.

"Do not disturb them, Mrs Holmes," Greg added.

Ready to spit fire, Mrs Holmes was interrupted by the door opening and Anthea, dressed in a camisole and silk robe, her hair still a sleep tousled mess, stepped outside. 

"What?!" she demanded quietly.

"It's nothing, Anthea. You return to my brother. We'll deal with this," Sherlock softly told her. 

She narrowed her eyes at the situation, then nodded, retreated and firmly shut the door behind her. Sherlock pointed imperiously towards the sitting room, and after another glance, the Holmes parents followed his directive and moved. John reverted to his trusted stand-by, and kept his voice quiet as he asked: "Tea?"

Getting nods from Sherlock and Greg, John turned to the kitchen to prepare the beverage while Sherlock and Lestrade made sure the parents did indeed make their way to the appointed room. Several minutes later, John returned with a tray with steaming tea pot, mugs, milk and sugar, and put them on the table as he watched the other four glare at each other.

"What is…" Mrs Holmes started.

"Be quiet, Mother. We shall have this conversation when my brother is done, no matter how long it takes."

"You have become quite insolent, boy," she hissed again.

"And you have become quite deaf. I said to be quiet. Mycroft needs silence now much more than your hurt pride. Shut up."

"Sherlock…" Father tried at his wife's infuriated look, but gave up when he saw the other two clearly signal him to keep his mouth shut.

When the tea was properly steeped, John poured for all of them, and they sat in silence and sipped while waiting for Mycroft. They went through at least two cups each before the study door opened and Mycroft came out, quite disheveled, Anthea following him in a similar state as she had been seen in before. John had just made a fresh pot of tea, and offered them both a cup, which they gladly accepted.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft started, but to Mummy's distress, Mycroft was addressing Lestrade instead of her.

"No worries," Gregory smiled. "Problem solved?"

"Not quite yet. I fear I shall have to return to negotiations later today, but for now there is no immediate threat."

"Want me to go pack?"

Mycroft stared at his lover, then took in the others and read what he could. He hesitated.

"Not necessarily now. What happened here?"

As he'd learned, Mycroft knew it was better to ask Gregory than to deduce. Anthea had written down some notes for him after the short disturbance outside the study door, but Mycroft wanted to be certain. Greg had learned to be quick and concise when giving facts to Mycroft.

"Nothing much. Sherlock and John came in around five, looking for you. Told them you had business with Anthea, they decided to stay. Your Mum came in around seven, your Dad in tow. Saw us, then rushed off to find you."

Mycroft sipped his tea.

"Ah. Really, Mother. I realize you do not think highly of me, but at least give me a little credit."

"They were in bed with each other!" Mrs Holmes screeched.

"Asleep!" the five younger members of the company countered. Even Anthea knew this.

Mycroft rubbed his forehead again.

"This clearly is not going to work. We should leave."

He rose from his seat, but before he could take more than a few steps, was stopped by his father.

"Please, Mycroft. We just… we don't understand. Help us understand, please."

Mycroft hesitated, before he looked to his brother and their partners. 

"I need to shower and dress. As do we all. We shall see you later."

The five retreated upstairs. Sherlock joined his brother on the bed in his bedroom, while John and Greg leaned against a wall, and Anthea stood between them, arms crossed and quite clearly furious. At last Mycroft spoke.

"I do not wish to jeopardize the progress we made last night."

"I don't care," Sherlock replied. "They clearly do not trust you, me, or any of us. I wish to be gone from here."

"Your mother was honestly grateful last night for what she saw of your relationships. I recommend to explain," Anthea voiced her opinion.

They looked towards the other two. Lestrade looked hurt and turned away. John swallowed, but put in his two cents.

"I realize my opinion doesn't count for much. But… They really seemed to be making an effort last night. I didn't understand either when I first saw the three of you, remember? Maybe just, you know, try to explain, and if they still… then we're gone. Then we're not staying here. I'm not putting anyone through that."

Mycroft looked to his lover.

"Gregory? Please?"

Lestrade sighed, but turned his eyes on Mycroft.

"Fine. I don't like it. Your father, sure, probably. Your mum, not so much, as yet again proven. And I still think they're going to want to talk about your sister, like I told you last night. But…" 

Lestrade hesitated.

"I don't want you to give up, just like that. I'd do just about anything to still have my mum and dad around to talk to, even if I wouldn't agree with them. Not to absurd or illegals levels, mind you, but it would be nice. I don't want to tell you to abandon half of your closest family. I want you to be happy. I want you to have everything, you know?"

Greg looked sheepishly at Mycroft, who surged up from the side of the bed to embrace him in warmth and affection. Sherlock swallowed.

"Well said, Gertrude. So, brother, we shall remain here for now. Have breakfast. Try to…" and here Sherlock wrinkled his nose as if the most malodorous scent ever had just hit his nostrils "… explain."

*****

They entered the kitchen for breakfast just about an hour later. All had showered and changed, and Anthea had summoned Mr Davies and his car around to await them. While John and Greg were loading the bags into the car, Lestrade spoke to the driver. 

"Good night, Nick?"

Nick Davies smiled brightly.

"Oh, yes, sir!" He held up a tablet. "I got to catch up with some of my programs in peace and quiet, sir, without the wife and kids interrupting!"

Greg and John grinned, knowing Mr Davies would have only paid marginal attention to his shows while he watched for threats to Mycroft. 

"Glad to hear it! You've got some days off now?" Greg asked.

"Of course, sir. Two days off to rest. Mr Holmes does need us at prime attention, you know."

"Sure. Well, thanks again for your care, Nick."

"No problem, Mr Lestrade. Anything for Mr Holmes. Do let me know when you're ready to leave."

"We will, thanks."

As they walked back to the house, John smiled at his friend.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just… I never knew you were this comfortable with having servants, Greg."

Lestrade barked out a short laugh.

"Comfortable? Mate, it's a bloody nightmare! Can't snog in the car because of the driver. Can't snog on the couch because of the butler. Can't snog in the bath because what would the housekeeper find? There's always someone around. You and Sherlock, you've got it made. Mrs Hudson already thinks you're shagging, and no one else to interrupt to offer you a cup of tea or a drink or whatever…"

Greg blushed and stared at his friend.

"You know what? Forget I said that, any of that. It's lovely, that's what it is. Never have to clean up after myself, never have to cook if I don't want to, never have to do anything, really. Just have to get home. It's… lovely. Yeah, it's great."

The grin Greg flashed John wasn't quite convincing.

"Come on. Those two berks of ours have probably already started arguing again. Have to step in, you and me. Can't leave it all to Anthea."

John stared after his friend as Lestrade made his way inside, and was once again reminded of what Greg had said earlier. 

'Loving a Holmes. It's difficult, and sometimes it will break your heart, but it's like nothing else.'

*****

When they returned inside, they found the others at the large kitchen table sipping more tea, the brothers on one end, the parents on the other, leaving as much room as possible between them, while Anthea was skillfully multitasking skillets of scrambled eggs, frying bacon and sausages and putting bread in the toaster. She waved them to the table as well, where they sat down in the no man's land between the two pairs, and John poured tea for both of them.

"So what's the problem now?" Lestrade took the bull by the horns as he looked at Mrs Holmes.

She bristled, but did answer, her voice cold.

"You really had me fooled last night. I actually believed that you cared for my sons in the way a loving relationship is supposed to be, and I was prepared to let the… homosexual aspect of it not bother me. But this morning I see with my own eyes that it is not a loving relationship at all, it's a depraved orgy! And I can only think that Mycroft is the puppet master of this charade!"

Anthea slammed a plate of toast onto the table and glared warningly at Mrs Holmes.

John calmly turned to Sherlock and said quietly: "I can see why you need affection from us sometimes if this is what you grew up with."

Sherlock looked at him, then gave him a grin and a chuckle. Lestrade turned back to Mummy.

"If you think what you saw this morning constitutes a depraved orgy, you really have led a sheltered life, Mrs Holmes. I can recommend you some films for educational purposes."

Mycroft, John and Anthea tried to hide small smiles, but Sherlock openly chuckled again.

"All you saw this morning was three people, almost fully dressed, sleeping deeply before you decided to breach the privacy of the room and barge in. Have you never had a sleepover? Or a pajama party?" Lestrade continued.

Anthea bit her lips and turned her back to the table to hide her mirth.

"But what I wonder most," and now Lestrade's voice turned icy cold, "is why you are always so keen to blame Mycroft."

"Gregory…" Mycroft interjected and grasped his lover's fingers.

"No, I'm sorry, My, I know we said we'd try to explain things, but once again she comes across something she doesn't like and immediately you get the blame. I can't let that go. Everything to do with your murdering psychopath of a sister was your fault according to your Mum, even though it was her own brother, your Uncle Rudy, who arranged everything. You were twelve, My! How the hell could that be your fault? And I know she's blamed you for Sherlock's drug use, saying you should have looked after him better! I've never known anyone who went to such lengths as you did and do to look after his brother! Your sister again plays murderous games, and it's your fault. Your brother finally gets to a place where he can find some happiness and contentment, but because she doesn't like the shape of it, again it's your fault. Why does she always think it's your fault?"

Mycroft looked down at the table. It was Sherlock who answered, quietly and brutally honest.

"Because he was born."

"What?" came from John and Greg at the same time.

Sherlock shrugged.

"He was born. Mummy likes to say she gave up her career for her children, but it wasn't a choice she made. It's no coincidence there's a seven year gap between me and Mycroft. She hadn't planned on getting pregnant yet, but there Mycroft was, and so it's his fault."

They all stared at him.

"But that's ridiculous!" John exclaimed.

"As you yourself have said many times, John, Holmeses can be ridiculous." Sherlock smirked a little. "I figured it out when I was nine. I can therefore only assume that Mycroft realized it when he was younger than that. Probably when he was seven. Possibly my conception and birth were the catalyst."

He looked to his brother, apparently curious about the answer. Mycroft looked up and smiled at his little brother.

"I was six. I overheard Father asking Mother for a second child. Things were said that made it quite obvious I had not been wanted, not at that time at least. Of course, once you came along, and then Eurus, there was only so much more to blame me for."

In the silence that followed, everyone staring at him with pale, blanched faces, even his parents, it was Anthea who moved over to him and wrapped her arms around him from behind, hugging him tightly. With his free hand, the one not still holding Gregory's fingers, he softly patted her arms as he relaxed into her hold. After a few more moments, he turned his head and lightly kissed her cheek.

"Thank you, Anthea. You truly are a dear, sweet girl."

"I love you, Sir," she said, blinking against the moisture in her eyes.

"I love you too, my dear."

Then she released him and turned back to the breakfast cooking on the stove as if nothing had happened.

"I should have known," Sherlock said after a few moments. He looked at his brother again. "The pictures. At six, that's when you started gaining weight."

"Hmmm," Mycroft hummed, "I'm afraid at that age even I did not have the discipline to moderate my eating habits. Cook knew I was unhappy, and her remedy was always food. She gave me biscuits and sweets, and I fear it was then a habit of a lifetime was ingrained. Of course, that too was just one more thing to resent about me."

"Jesus," John muttered.

Lestrade turned to Mrs Holmes.

"I think I hate you."

Mycroft chuckled, but it held no mirth.

"No, you don't, Gregory. You don't have it in you to properly hate anyone, not even my mother or my sister. Now, if we are done rehashing childhood trauma, I would like to address this morning's drama."

He turned to his parents.

"I realize we have never been an overly affectionate family, so it may come as a surprise to you that sometimes, people do need physical comfort and affection. This does not mean it's always sexual in nature. When Sherlock was little, after Eurus was taken away but before I left for university, I cared for him and he for me. We lost that for a long time, but since Gregory came into our lives, we have regained that familiarity with each other. When either of us requires that comfort, we know we can turn to each other, or to Gregory. And now also to John." He gave the doctor a small smile. "Being here after all that has happened and has been said, especially during the past year, has not been easy or comfortable for either of us. Had I not been called away for business in the middle of the night, you would this morning have found me, instead of Gregory, holding my little brother. But make no mistake. I am in a relationship with Gregory, and Sherlock with John. There is not, nor will there be, any intermingling of those relationships other than deep friendship and care."

He looked coldly at his parents. 

"And for you to even suggest otherwise, is not only insulting, but massively inappropriate. Now, I believe I am done justifying myself and those I care for to you. Far too much time and effort has already been spent trying to gain an approval I am clearly never to receive. Since I do not wish to deprive my brother of his parents, I shall remain civil with you, so long as you manage to do the same. But I shall not be judged, or interrogated, or accused of anything again, not by you."

He gave Anthea a small nod, and she placed the finished breakfast on the table and sat down herself.

"We shall eat, and then we shall return home. I have an international crisis to attend to later today."

And with that, Mycroft spooned some eggs and bacon onto his plate and started eating. The others followed his example, and breakfast was consumed in silence.

*****

After breakfast, Mycroft simply nodded to his parents and went outside to slide into the car with Anthea. Sherlock clearly wanted to do the same, but was held back by John, and Lestrade hesitated.

"Look," he said to the elder Holmeses, "I'm seriously pissed off with you. Last night was actually quite pleasant, and for a moment I thought… but it's like one step forward, ten steps back with you. I don't want to hear from you, or have you anywhere near Mycroft, until you get over yourselves and start acting like actual human beings again. I'd say the same for contact with Sherlock, but that's not up to me. I hope you do some more thinking, and this time, come to the right conclusions, yeah? Because otherwise, this is going to be the last time we speak to each other."

He nodded at them, turned and left. John, still holding Sherlock's arm, looked at them.

"I honestly don't know what to add." He glanced at Sherlock, then continued. "Except that we don't want to hear from you for a while. We've got enough going on to sort out without having to deal with your nonsense too. Sort yourselves out, and then maybe, some time from now, we can try again. Have a good day."

And then he finally let Sherlock drag him outside and into the car.

The drive back was somber and silent.

*****

A single look at the group as they exited the car told Austin the visit had not gone well. Of course there had been speculation among the staff, and when Mr Holmes and his company had not returned by the time dinner was over, the younger and more positive members of the staff had proclaimed it a good sign. Austin and Mrs Weaver, though, had not held such good hopes, and it appeared they had been right. This was only further confirmed when he came to bring drinks, and he found the five of them out on the patio, Mr Holmes, Mr Lestrade and Mr Sherlock smoking what seemed to be their second cigarette each, judging from the ashtray. 

When Mr Holmes did not react in any way to Austin's presence, he cleared his throat. Anthea looked up from her phone and spoke to him quietly. 

"Something cold and light for lunch today please, Austin. I don't know about dinner yet. Mr Holmes has some business to attend to this afternoon. I'll let you know as soon as I can, alright?"

"Of course, Miss Anthea," Austin said, and retreated to the kitchen, where he informed Mrs Weaver and the others, warning them that the party was clearly to be left alone for a while.

It was only after he had chain-smoked his fourth cigarette that Mycroft shook himself from his thoughts and found a drink in front him. He glanced at Anthea and she told him what she had discussed with Austin. Mycroft grimaced.

"Thank you, my dear. I seem to need you for the simplest of tasks these days. I do apologize."

"Please don't, Sir. That's what I'm here for."

"Telling my butler what to arrange for lunch hardly falls under your responsibilities as my personal aide."

"Making sure you are taken care of when you are clearly in emotional distress falls under my responsibilities as your personal friend, Sir."

"Ah, yes. Mycroft Holmes with friends. Who ever conceived of such a concept."

She smiled fondly at him.

"Well!" he exclaimed, and looked around the table. "Shall we talk? Or shall we all get drunk and mope?"

Lestrade snorted.

"I thought you had an international crisis to prevent?"

"Are you insinuating I am not able to negotiate down foreign governments whilst drunk and moping, Gregory? Pish!"

Greg laughed and raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Of course you can! What was I thinking?"

Then he became serious again.

"Are you okay, My?"

"No. But I shall be, Gregory. I feel I have finally reached the point of saturation, and can take no more, therefore there is no reason to keep trying. This will make it easier to accept there is nothing more to be done, and so I shall be able to let it go. And you, Gregory? How are you?"

Lestrade sighed.

"I'm angry, and disappointed, even though I didn't have much hope. The more I hear, the worse it gets. And that makes me wonder exactly how blind I've been all these years."

"Don't blame yourself, Greg," Sherlock interjected, stubbing out his cigarette. "We Holmeses are quite good at keeping up appearances. Very decent actors, the lot of us. There is plenty we have concealed, from everyone, from each other, and even from ourselves."

"Yeah, I don't know if that makes it better or worse." 

"Oh, definitely worse, I'd say."

Sherlock grinned, and Lestrade couldn't help but smile back at him.

"So what do we do now?" John asked.

Greg rose and stretched, then downed the last of his drink.

"I'm going to the gym, beat the crap out of something, shower, have a spot of lunch, and then take a swim while My and Anthea save the world. After that, we can decide what to do for dinner, and then perhaps follow up on Mycroft's suggestion to get drunk. I'll try not to mope, though. Anyone else up for that plan?"

"Sounds good." John got up too. "I'll join you for at least some of that."

The other three rose as well, and the four men went to the gym, while Anthea retreated to Mycroft's study to work and prepare for their later calls.

*****

John and Greg took turns at the punching bag. Mycroft pushed himself hard on the treadmill, and Sherlock made use of several machines, a workout he didn't usually partake in, but clearly had experience with. After about an hour and a half, they'd mostly worked off their frustration, except for Mycroft, who was still running. It was Sherlock who finally coaxed his brother off the treadmill. After cooling down and showering, they went to the kitchen for lunch, where they were joined by Anthea and the staff. No one spoke of the visit to the cottage.

During lunch, Anthea kept checking her phone, and at some point, she nudged Mycroft and showed him something.

"Ah," he purred, "good news indeed. It seems the trouble is resolving itself, and we shall merely be required to give a few well placed nudges. We should be finished quite quickly." He smiled at the others. "How about dinner at Renard tonight?" he asked, naming one of the poshest restaurants in the city. It was one of his favorites, and one of the few places Sherlock actually really liked as well, so he was not surprised his brother gave him a pleased smile of approval. Gregory nodded too. Ten years ago he would have dreaded it, worrying he might inadvertently embarrass Mycroft, but he'd gotten used to places like that and knew Mycroft enjoyed them. John shrugged, he had no idea what they were talking about.

"Anthea? Would you care to join us? A small token of my appreciation?"

She smiled a bright smile at him and nodded. It wasn't often she got to socialize at a place like Renard. Sure, she frequently accompanied Mycroft to posh establishments, but that was work. Getting to dress up and actually enjoy herself for an evening was rare. Before Mycroft could ask, Austin answered.

"I'll arrange a reservation for five at eight tonight, Sir. Now might then also be a good time to mention that we received a delivery from Mr Pettigrew yesterday afternoon, Sir. Your new suits have arrived. And, Miss Anthea, please let me know whether you will choose something from your wardrobe here, or if you would like someone to go over to your flat to retrieve something for you."

Several nods and thanks were bestowed, and then lunch finished and Mycroft and Anthea retreated to the study. The other three went back to the patio with another drink, but Sherlock soon got up and disappeared between the trees. John took the opportunity to ask his friend some more questions.

"Greg?"

"Hmmm?" Lestrade responded, taking a drag from a new smoke.

"Where are we eating tonight?"

"What? Oh! Renard. One of those posh places with the snooty waiters who think they're better than you just because you don't sound like Mycroft when you talk. Food's really good, though. I've never eaten anything there that I didn't love. I think it has three Michelin stars."

"Isn't that sort of place booked months in advance?"

Lestrade laughed.

"You really think Mycroft can't get a table anywhere he wants with an hour's notice?"

John chuckled ruefully.

"Yeah, I guess. So, it's really posh then?"

"Sure. Last time we were there, the Prime Minister came over to say hi to Mycroft. That's the kind of place it is, you know, where you can spot the PM in the wild."

He grinned at his own little joke, then took another look at John.

"You're not worried, are you?"

"Well… What should I wear?"

"One of your new suits, of course. That's why Austin made a point of saying they'd been delivered."

"And what about…"

"John. Remember what I said in the tearoom, when we went shopping? I used to worry about stuff like that too, you know, how to behave, thinking I'd make an arse of myself. But even if you do, which you won't, no one is going to even blink an eye, because you're with Mycroft Holmes. If you're worried, just wait to see what Mycroft and Sherlock do, and copy them."

"Sherlock?"

Lestrade grinned at John's dubious question.

"Yes. Sherlock knows how to behave. He does actually have manners, you know, even if he doesn't use them much. But Sherlock likes Renard too, and I've only ever seen him at his best behavior there. Manners wise, I won't say much for his conversation."

John actually laughed.

"Okay, okay. So you like the place too?"

Greg shrugged.

"It still isn't really my thing, never will be, I suppose. But Mycroft likes it, and like I said, the food's delicious. And I like seeing him all dressed up, of course, master of the universe and all. So if I have to wear a monkey suit to get to see that, I don't really mind every now and then. Also, if he gets to take me to posh places, I get to take him to a pub once in a while for an old fashioned pub lunch."

They giggled at each other at that image.

"Anthea's got a wardrobe here?"

"Hmmm, of course. She's got her own suite on the third floor. She spends about half her time here when Mycroft's home."

John hadn't realized that.

"Why?" 

Greg frowned at him.

"Come on, John. Seriously."

Thinking about that morning, Anthea and Mycroft secluded in the study at the cottage, working international politics in their sleepwear, John could kick himself. Sometimes he really was stupid.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

"And obviously I can't accompany Mycroft to official functions. Well, I rarely do. But if I do, it's more when it's useful for it to be known that Mycroft's got someone from NSY at his side. Normally, it's Anthea that goes with him, and while you and I know she's more dangerous than I am, everyone else at those things underestimates her because she's a beautiful young woman. It's good for Mycroft's image to be seen with her on his arm, it gives her plenty of opportunity to wheedle information out of people who think she's just a pretty companion to a powerful man, it saves us all embarrassment should I be called away unexpectedly and have to leave Mycroft there alone, and it protects our relationship from prying eyes."

He stared meaningfully at John.

"I live here, John. I've lived here for nearly a decade. And still, the likes of Magnussen and Moriarty never figured out that Mycroft and I are together."

John nodded, then frowned in disapproval but with some understanding as Lestrade lit yet another cigarette.

"So no one outside this house and the family really knows about your relationship. And like you said, you're never alone."

Greg's cigarette holding hand faltered halfway to his mouth.

"And you're alright with that?"

Greg brought the smoke to his lips and took a long drag. They both remained silent while he finished the cigarette and stubbed it out.

"John, mate. I'd really appreciate it if you would forget what I said this morning, the stuff about never being alone, you know? I knew what I was getting into. I knew there was always going to be Sherlock, and not only did I not mind, I welcomed it. When I came here and found a staff of people living in this house, I adapted. I understood that I was never again going to get to be swept away by passion and have sex on the kitchen table. I'm getting too old for things like that anyway. A bed is fine, it's all we need. And if I have to rouse myself after and get cleaned up and put on some sleepwear instead of just holding Mycroft and falling asleep, because at any moment there could be either Sherlock or Anthea coming into the room because they need Mycroft, that's a small price to pay for getting to sleep with him anyway. Everyone who's important, and that includes you, now knows about our relationship. So what if I don't get to kiss him in public? So what if I don't get to hold his hand on a stroll through the park? There'd be security around us anyway, and that's not exactly conducive to a romantic atmosphere for me. I have Mycroft when we're at home, where it counts, and that's enough. It has to be."

Lestrade stopped speaking because he saw Sherlock appearing from between a couple of bushes, and it was only that which caused them to hear a small whimper behind them. Alarmed, they turned around to see Mycroft and Anthea standing at the open doors to the patio, Mycroft dreadfully pale and Anthea gritting her teeth. It took them no more than a second to realize that Mycroft had heard at least part of that.

Mycroft turned to flee back inside, but was stopped by Anthea standing in his way.

"No!" Lestrade yelled. "No, Mycroft! Don't you dare run away from me now!"

But Mycroft couldn't run away anyway. Anthea deftly blocked his way inside, and when he turned, there was Gregory, face flushed in anger and fear. And behind him, John and his little brother, Sherlock having rushed over as soon as he saw the expression on his brother's face and had heard Lestrade's yell. Mycroft turned back to Anthea, his eyes pleading with her to let him through.

Her gaze softened, and then she shook her head.

"No, Sir," she said, "I've told you this before. And after all that's happened, I'm not about to let you ruin the most important thing in your life by running away."

She bodily turned him around again and pushed him towards Gregory, who caught him and then manhandled him into a chair. Lestrade kneeled in front of him, ignoring the cold tiles that would wreak havoc on his knees, and blocked Mycroft in the chair. The Detective Inspector looked down, gathering his thoughts, clearly biting back his immediate responses. When he looked up again, his eyes were calm.

"I was making a point to John. I meant every word. I don't care. I knew what I was getting into. I want you, and to have you here is all I need to be happy. I don't have to have everyone in the world know how much I love you. I just need YOU to know that. I don't need to have sex on every available surface. I'm not a young man anymore, and frankly, halfway through I'd probably beg you to let us take it to our most comfortable bed. I don't care about who else is here, or who might interrupt, because they all know how much I love you. I don't want to join you for every single one of those godawful receptions and dinners. I never know what to say anyway, and Anthea's much better at those things. I don't need public displays. I just need you to show me you love me back. Just every now and then. Please." 

Mycroft regarded his Gregory, the most marvelous of men, kneeling before him, pleading for his love. He reached out his hand and tentatively brushed his fingers across the Detective Inspector's cheek.

"Have I been remiss in showing you, Gregory? Have my gestures been so inadequate you have not been able to see my true meaning?"

"Can't a man doubt sometimes, My? I know you love me. I do know that. But it would be nice to hear it sometimes too."

"I told you I loved you not a week ago, at Baker Street."

"Yes, when you felt guilty about spending the time with Sherlock, and telling John that Sherlock was the most important thing in your life."

"I told you last night, at the cottage."

"When you were fretting about your parents, and were already quite sure I was asleep and wouldn't hear you."

"I…"

"Mycroft, I don't need to hear it every day. I know it, in my heart I know it. Just…" Greg sighed, "tell me it sometime when there's not a crisis, or when you think it's the proper response, or when you feel you need to assuage me. Just tell me one morning when I'm heading off to work, or when Mrs Weaver says I'm chopping the onions all wrong, or when I'm trying to do my tie and messing it up. Don't say it now. For now, just come to the pool with me for a swim, and don't you dare pull away from me again."

Mycroft leaned in to kiss his wonderful man, and grasped his hand.

"A swim, Gregory? Are you sure you can keep up with me?"

Lestrade smiled.

"Oh, I'll catch you. Don't you worry about that."

*****

The four men went to the pool, where they were joined a little later by Anthea, who had dressed in a stunning one piece bathing suit that earned her appreciative whistles from John and Greg. She smiled at them and preened a little. It was nice to be admired every now and then. The Holmes brothers rolled their eyes at the display. Intellectually, they both understood Anthea was a beautiful woman, but that was as far as it went for them. They also understood though that their partners had a physical appreciation for the female form. Had they been anyone else, this might have caused insecurity or jealousy, but to the Holmes boys, it was just a fact, a data point. Their insecurity in their relationships came from their own inexperience and uncertainty of how to act and what was expected of them, not something as simple as their partner admiring a pretty view.

They spent quite some time doing laps, and then tossed a beach ball around for a while, until they tired. Anthea retreated to her suite to start getting ready for the evening, while the men slipped into the hot tub for a bit, before also going up to change when it was nearing six.

John found several suit bags hanging from the closet door in the blue room, and after showering to get rid of the smell of chlorine, went to investigate. He found four immaculate suits, and then spotted a large bag on the dresser which contained several shirts, all neatly packaged, ties, socks and even underwear. He frowned. When Greg had told him to wear his new suit for dinner, he hadn't given it a further thought. But now he was confronted with choices he didn't feel quite prepared to make. A knock on his door startled him. 

"Yes? Come in."

Austin appeared from behind the door, and John breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Austin could help him! And apparently the man had had the same idea, because he came in carrying a shirt on a hanger.

"Ah, Dr Watson. I took the liberty of having this shirt pressed for you to wear this evening. It goes particularly well with the blue suit, if you don't mind the suggestion."

"Not at all, thanks! And ehm… any suggestions for a tie?"

Austin smiled benignly and hung the shirt with the blue suit, then quickly selected an appropriate tie and socks, before turning to a couple of shoe boxes John hadn't even noticed yet, and setting out a new pair of shoes. John silently blessed the man, deeply grateful for the help in making him not look like an idiot without rubbing it in. 

"Will you require help with dressing, sir?"

"Ehm… no, no thank you. I think I can manage. But thank you very much for your suggestions."

"Of course, sir. If you do require anything further, I am the mere press of a button away, sir."

"Yes, thank you."

Austin disappeared, and John breathed another sigh of relief, followed by a small giggle. Help dressing? He could manage to put his own clothes on, thanks! Once they'd been selected and laid out for him, of course. He giggled again. Thankfully Austin hadn't chosen a pair of underwear for him as well, that would really have been embarrassing! Laughing at himself, he took his time to dress.

*****

Austin smiled when he heard the doctor giggle just as he closed the door. Over the course of the late afternoon, Austin had been called quietly aside first by Mr Lestrade, who explained that Dr Watson was a little nervous about the posh restaurant they were going to that evening, and could Austin make sure the doctor was at least secure in his choice of clothing? Then Mr Holmes had quietly requested Austin make sure the doctor was appropriately dressed for the evening. Lastly, Mr Sherlock had requested Austin to advise Dr Watson to wear the blue suit, which he thought would be particularly fetching. Austin had shared a small grin with Miss Anthea, who had observed all this, and knew that Austin already had matters well in hand.

*****

Around seven, the party gathered in the hall downstairs. Mycroft and Lestrade were the first there, and Mycroft took the opportunity to fiddle with Gregory's tie. Not that there was anything wrong with it. They both knew it was just an excuse to stand close and touch. They were quickly joined by Sherlock, who smirked at them knowingly, then turned his attention back up the stairs to await John's arrival. When John appeared, Sherlock sucked in a breath. He'd been right. The blue suit on John was not only fetching, it was resplendent! Even Mycroft and Lestrade eyed him admiringly, and when the doctor reached them, complemented him genuinely.

"Thanks."

John blushed a little under the scrutiny and praise, then turned to Sherlock. Seeing Sherlock's unwavering attention firmly fixed on him, John's breath caught in his throat. He just managed to squeeze out a few words.

"Sherlock? What do you think?"

In response Sherlock stepped up to him so closely their chests almost touched, then used two fingers under the chin to tilt John's face up, and kissed him softly. It was their second kiss, it was still gentle and chaste, but there was a fire burning behind it.

"Beautiful, John," Sherlock whispered when he pulled back. Then they both blushed furiously when they saw Mycroft and Greg grinning at them broadly.

Luckily for them, the sound of high heels on the stairs pulled their attention back up, just in time to see Anthea appear at the top of the staircase. She looked glorious. Her hair was done up in loose curls, and she wore a floor length gown in a pale lavender that flowed and shimmered around her with every movement. Not even the Holmes brothers could or would deny that she was truly a vision of feminine beauty. There were no wolf whistles this time, as there had been at the pool, but the clear looks of admiration on all four of the men's faces were even more satisfying. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, all four reverently kissed her cheek as they expressed how wonderful she looked.

Both Mycroft and Gregory offered her an arm, and she took them both, allowing them to lead her to the drawing room, Sherlock and John following. There, Austin served drinks, and Mrs Weaver discreetly handed Mycroft two small boxes and Sherlock one. After Austin and Mrs Weaver had retreated, Mycroft turned to Anthea, offering her the larger of the two boxes.

"My dear, a small token of my appreciation."

She put down her glass and accepted the box. Her breath caught when she had opened it, and her eyes shone as she looked back up at him.

"Oh, Mycroft! They're beautiful!"

She gently kissed his cheek, and immediately set about changing her current jewelry for the new ones, a subtle and understated but exquisite set of earrings, necklace and bracelet with pale pink diamonds. They complimented her dress perfectly, and after she had admired them in the mirror for a little bit, she turned back to Mycroft and kissed him again.

"Thank you, Sir."

"You are quite welcome, my dear. You deserve them."

Then he turned to Gregory, and handed him the smaller box. 

"And for you, dearest."

Lestrade opened the box to find new cufflinks with little handcuffs on them. Laughing out loud, Lestrade grasped Mycroft's arm and lifted it to peer at the cufflinks he was wearing, which confirmed his suspicion that it was the pair Greg had given him some time ago with little umbrellas on them. He kissed Mycroft soundly on the lips, thanked him, and exchanged the ones he was already wearing for the new pair.

John was watching and chuckling along with Greg, when Sherlock turned to him nervously.

"John."

"Yeah?"

Still smiling, John turned to Sherlock. Seeing the nerves, his smile faltered.

"Sherlock? What is it?"

Silently, Sherlock held out his small box to John. Curious and a little worried because of Sherlock's behavior, John took it apprehensively, then opened it. It held a tie pin matching the new cufflinks that had been included with his new suit. He looked up.

"Sherlock…"

"A small token of my… appreciation. As my brother says."

John reached up a hand and lightly caressed his fingers over Sherlock's cheek, smiling at him.

"Thank you. It's beautiful."

"May I?"

"Please."

Sherlock removed the pin from the box and carefully put it in place, taking his time. When he was finally done to his satisfaction, Sherlock looked up again to catch John's eyes. This time, it was John who kissed Sherlock.

*****

It was a merry band that set off for the restaurant half an hour later, and there the merriment continued. As they entered Renard and were brought to their table - best in the house, of course - they were openly watched and appraised by the other guests and staff. It was a round table set for five, and Anthea was seated first, Mycroft to her right, followed by Greg, John and Sherlock on Anthea's other side. Those not in the know wondered at the strange company, one lady and four men, and quietly discussed who was with whom. But they never would guess correctly. As Sherlock had said, the Holmeses were consummate actors, Anthea and Lestrade were used to this sort of thing, and John was more worried about manners and etiquette than about who his table partner was supposed to be. 

Before any of the snooty waiters Greg had warned John about earlier could approach the table, chef Michel himself appeared, which caused quite a stir, as it was known chef Michel seldom came to the dining room, and then only at the end of the night when service had finished. The chef headed straight for their party, kissed Anthea's hand like an old-fashioned gentleman, then greeted Mycroft, Lestrade and Sherlock. Then he looked to John.

"Dr Watson, Chef Michel. A dear friend." Sherlock informed him, and the two shook hands, before the chef turned back to Mycroft.

"The lamb is turning out particularly succulent this evening, Mr Holmes. And we have cod fillets in a buttercream sauce that melt in the mouth."

Sherlock looked pleased, and Mycroft smiled at the chef.

"We are having something of a celebration, Chef Michel, and have quite some time to spend. I shall leave us in your very capable hands. Please do delight us with whatever delicious tidbits you have available."

The chef beamed.

"As you please, Mr Holmes. And thank you."

He nodded and took his leave, motioning two of the waiters over on his way. Chef had a quick word with them, and moments later, they appeared at the table to serve wine. As one of them started to explain that this particular wine would complement the first course, Mycroft and Sherlock glared at him. His colleague quickly ushered him away, quietly berating him.

John leaned over to Greg.

"What was that? How would they know the wine would complement the course, we haven't even ordered anything yet!"

"No need for ordering, mate," Greg told him softly. "Mycroft said we were in the chef's hands tonight, so it's Chef's Choice, meaning the chef will choose what we eat. In some places that can be a bit dicey, you know, if they're just trying to get rid of the old stuff, but do you really think in a place like this and it being Mycroft and all, it will be anything other than the most delicious things to come out of that kitchen this evening?"

John stared at him. Greg grinned.

"Be prepared to be here for a couple of hours, John, and to be stuffed to the gills by the time we leave. Every course will be there to impress Mycroft, hoping for his further business, which as you can guess is quite substantial. That waiter must be new. The chef told them what wine to serve, because he's already got at least three courses in mind, and the waiter shouldn't have been so stupid as to assume we didn't know that. That's why our Holmeses glared."

John smirked a little at that.

"It's also a bit of an opportunity for the chef. He gets to do things not strictly on the menu, but which he thinks should be. A ringing endorsement from an important Chef's Choice table gives the chef the leverage against the owners to have his dishes put on the menu, you know, if it's not his own restaurant. I know for a fact that chef Michel has gotten several dishes onto the menu after we had dined here."

Lestrade wiggled his eyebrows at John.

"Greg, I hardly know you anymore. Influencing fine dining, dressing in bespoke suits, it's like the friend I knew for years has been replaced by a pod-person."

Lestrade chuckled quietly.

"Just sit and eat, John. And try to remember what you eat and what you thought of it. I'm sure chef Michel will want to know. And don't be fooled by your first plate. There won't be much on it, but there will be very, very many of them."

"Are you two quite finished?" Mycroft asked. They looked at him a little guiltily, but when they saw his smile, they relaxed.

"Sorry, Mycroft," John replied. "I was just getting an update on fine dining."

"From Germaine?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "I would be the far better choice for something like that!"

"You don't eat anything for days, and then wolf down beans on toast! How is that fine dining?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. 

"Please, John. Everything in moderation."

John's answer was prevented by their first course being served. John looked at his plate. It held three morsels, he had no idea what they were. There was a tiny green leaf sticking up out of each of them, and nothing amounted to more than a spoon full. He watched his companions each pick up one of the little things with their fingers, and copied them, laying it on his tongue. 

It practically melted.

It was delicious.

He saw the others take a sip of wine, and followed their example. 

Oh!

John Watson's practical introduction to fine dining included nine courses, seven different glasses of wine, very pleasant conversation, a report to a three star Michelin chef who seemed to appreciate his feedback, a belly groaning from fullness, and not a single second spent being uncomfortable, either in his suit, with his manners or conversation, or his groaning belly, stuffed with the most delicious things he'd ever eaten.

Sherlock watched from the doorway into the blue room as his doctor slept the sleep of the well fed and inebriated, and smiled.

*****

John woke slightly later than his usual time, mildly disappointed to find himself alone. He made a quick trip to the bathroom, then decided to check on the others before showering and dressing. When he opened his door and looked into the hallway, he saw the door to Mycroft and Greg's room was wide open and the bed was empty. He ventured into the hall and came to Sherlock's door, which was firmly closed. Opening it with utmost care, he found Sherlock fast asleep on his own, and closed the door again. Then he showered and dressed, and went downstairs.

On his way to find the others he passed by Mycroft's study, where he could hear Mycroft and Anthea talking. Lestrade was in the media room, the morning news playing on one of the big screens, the man himself reading a newspaper while sipping a steaming cup of coffee.

"Hey, Greg."

"John! Good morning!" Lestrade replied cheerfully. "Coffee? Tea?" He asked, nodding to a trolley with supplies standing nearby.

"Thanks, I'll help myself."

John went for tea, then settled next to Greg on the sofa. 

"So… Sherlock's still asleep."

"Yeah. He does that after a big meal. Personally I think that he thinks that if he's asleep while he's digesting it, the sleeping compensates for the energy his body is using to digest."

They both chuckled.

"Mycroft called away for work again?"

"No, not really. Just a few small matters, they said, so he can stay home longer while Anthea goes back to the office."

"Does he do that often?"

Lestrade shrugged. 

"He didn't use to. In the beginning he made no concessions at all, and I really only ever saw him at night, or when Anthea sent him home, or when I went to have lunch with him at his office. After about a year, I think Anthea had a word with him about it, though she never admitted that, and he started working from home on my days off, so I'd at least see a bit more of him. I mean, we'd have the odd long weekend, short trips and the like, but never more than a few days. Then, after Sherlock Fell, that didn't happen anymore either. He was juggling his normal workload and trying to keep Sherlock safe in his dismantling of Moriarty's web, so I didn't really blame him, but those were two lonely years for us. Hardly seeing each other, and no Sherlock around. So when Sherlock was finally back, we had a few long talks about that. Thankfully Mycroft had felt the loneliness just like me, and after that, he started making more time for us again. We even planned a two week holiday once, and made it for a full week and a half before he was called back."

Greg grinned at that.

"Of course it helps that he can leave more and more things with Anthea nowadays. She's been with him longer than I have, did you know that?"

John shook his head, he hadn't known.

"Hmmm. She was just barely in her twenties when he chose her. Most people thought he'd just recruited her as his personal aide and protection, but Mycroft knew from the beginning that if their relationship worked out, she'd be his successor. It took quite some years, but now, almost everyone who matters in their work knows Anthea's word is as good as Mycroft's. There are still plenty of things he has to do himself of course, and there will always be a few who refuse to listen to her because she's young and a woman, but give them a little more time and between them they'll have those idiots cowed into submission as well."

"Is Anthea like Mycroft then? Genius like a Holmes?"

"No, it's different, I think. But surely you've realized by now that she is wicked smart. Their thought processes are different, but she's very good at tactics and strategy. And the few peers Mycroft has at work, they aren't like him and Sherlock either. Should something happen to Mycroft, God forbid, Sherlock would still aid Anthea when she takes over."

"Wait… what?"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at John's confusion.

"John… Sherlock is Mycroft's most trusted and valued advisor. He doesn't have a taste for international politics, or politics of any kind, but he is certainly not ignorant of them. Sherlock sees patterns and clues in politics just as he sees them in crime. At the cottage, when the two of you came into the bedroom and asked where Mycroft was, and I said it was something about Libya, what did Sherlock reply? He said 'Ah'. That was not 'Ah, I don't care', it was 'Ah, I understand'. The two of them confer and collaborate much more often than pretty much anyone realizes."

"Gregory," came Mycroft's pained voice from the doorway, "I do wish you wouldn't share all our secrets quite so freely."

Lestrade turned and stared at him steadily, his voice a little sharp when he replied.

"This is never going to work if John has no idea what is really going on, Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed.

"I do understand that, dearest, but can you not leave me at least a few little secrets? I fear John will have no respect at all left for me if all is revealed."

Greg melted a little at the plaintive look and tone. John cleared his throat.

"Actually, Mycroft, I find myself respecting you more and more with almost every thing I'm learning about you these days."

Mycroft looked slightly taken aback.

"Well… thank you, John."

"I would also hope that, since you've trusted me with your brother these past few years, you would know that you can trust me with yourself and your secrets too."

Mycroft swallowed.

"I do trust you, Dr Watson. I trust you with my brother, and with my lover, and even with myself. The nation however is something I have never fully trusted anyone with, no exceptions, so allow me a little trepidation when it comes to that."

"Not even Sherlock?"

"Leave the nation fully in Sherlock's hands? Heaven forbid! Who knows what the country would come to with Sherlock pulling the strings!"

John giggled.

"Yeah, yeah I can understand that. And Anthea?"

Mycroft cast a quick glance at Lestrade, and deduced the man had told John more of Anthea's true position as well.

"I trust her, but she has not quite yet reached a position where she can exert enough influence, so I cannot yet leave it entirely to her."

John nodded, then his eyes twinkled.

"What about the Queen?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"Her Majesty has my complete trust. You must understand however that there are things the Queen cannot do that I can."

"Are you saying you're more powerful than the Queen, Mycroft?"

Lestrade bit back his grin at John's cheeky teasing. Mycroft was not amused.

"I am saying that certain things are better and more efficiently handled from the shadows behind the throne."

"Yes, like Lestrade's naughty bits," Sherlock drawled, appearing behind his brother.

John and Greg lost it, and collapsed in laughter. Sherlock grinned at scoring a point, and twin spots of rosy fury appeared on Mycroft's cheeks.

"Sherlock! Take that back! I would never! Not in the presence of the crown!"

Sherlock embraced his brother from behind, squeezed him tightly and kissed his cheek.

"Do relax, brother mine. It was a jest. We all know your respect for Queen and country, crown and throne, would not allow you to even think lurid thoughts in their presence, let alone take matters in hand."

That only spurred Greg and John further on in their laughter and Sherlock's grin widened. Mycroft, admitting defeat, slumped in his brother's hold.

"Sometimes you truly are evil, Sherlock," he muttered.

"Yes, dear," Sherlock admitted, "but we do all so enjoy seeing you blush."

It took a few minutes for them all to calm down, and then it was time for breakfast.

*****

After a light meal in deference to the previous night's sumptuous dinner, Anthea took her leave, and the four men discussed plans for the day.

"Actually," Mycroft said, "I thought we might head for the farm today, if that is agreeable."

Seeing both Sherlock and Greg perk up at the suggestion, John nodded. Sherlock turned to him.

"Have you ever ridden, John?"

"Ridden what?" John asked, confused.

"A horse, naturally," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John swallowed, suddenly not so sure about his approval of this plan.

"We'll take that as a no," Mycroft answered for him. "Perhaps we should come up with another plan."

John, seeing Sherlock's face fall a little, didn't know what to say or do, but Lestrade cut in.

"No, that's okay. John can ride with me, while you and Sherlock ride together."

Mycroft peered at him.

"Are you certain?"

"Yeah! John will like my kind of riding!" Lestrade answered with a grin.

Mycroft assessed his lover, then nodded.

"Then we shall leave John in your capable hands, my dearest. Sherlock?"

"Yes! Let us go, My!"

And while Mycroft made a quick call and then informed his staff, Sherlock rushed upstairs to change.

*****

John followed Greg up the stairs.

"Greg? Horse riding?"

Lestrade grinned again.

"Don't worry, mate. Dress in jeans and boots, and a long-sleeved shirt you don't mind getting dirty, and bring a bag with a change of clothes."

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Nope! But I promise you'll like it!"

John sighed at his enthusiasm, but did as he was told. This was turning out to be much more life changing than he had ever thought. He'd expected some more surprises in getting to know Sherlock in this new way, but now he kept learning that he really hadn't known that much about his friend at all. He loved him all the more for what he was finding out, but when was it going to end?

*****

Once they were out of the city proper, it was only about half an hour before the driver turned into a shaded lane crossing more of the lush green meadows interspersed with shaded clumps of trees they had been traversing for the last few minutes. At the end of the lane stood a large farmhouse to one side, and the back of a huge building to the other. The door of the farmhouse opened, and a large weatherworn man stepped onto the porch, waiting. Mycroft and Sherlock stepped out of the car and greeted the man warmly, then were ushered inside. Greg held John back, both of them waiting by the car. A minute or two later, the man came back outside and came towards them.

"Greg!"

"Dennis! Good to see you!"

Lestrade and the man did the handshake and one armed hug thing men seem to do.

"Mr Holmes said there were two of you today?"

Greg grinned.

"Yes. Dennis, meet Dr John Watson. John, Dennis Grange. Dennis is in charge of the farm and the stables."

John and Dennis shook hands. 

"Coffee?"

"Please."

Dennis went back inside and came out shortly carrying four chipped mugs of coffee, handing them out, one for the driver as well. It wasn't really John's drink, but everything told him Dennis was a no nonsense man, and John would be better off simply sipping the drink and staying quiet. Lestrade and Dennis did the same. It was maybe ten minutes later, when John was just about reaching the bottom of his mug, when the farm door opened again and the Holmes brothers stepped out in full riding gear. The knee high black boots, skintight trousers, crisp shirts and jackets. They were both carrying caps and whips. John swallowed and was about to comment when a snorting whinny came from behind him, and he turned to see a woman approaching from behind the large building - the stables, John now understood -, leading two huge saddled horses. Sherlock's eyes lit up and he strode towards one of the large beasts, caressing its nose, and then practically snuggling up to it. Mycroft was a bit more restrained, but clearly affectionate with the other monster.

The brothers then greeted the woman, and started checking the saddles and gear. Once satisfied, they each quite athletically hoisted themselves into the saddle. John had to admit they looked magnificent, but shuddered to think he would have to get onto one of those beasts.

Dennis took their empty mugs and put them on the porch, then strode off towards the side of the farmhouse, where there was a large shed.

"Come on, John," Greg said, "ours are in there."

John followed his friend hesitatingly, then let out a startled laugh of joy and relief when Dennis pushed open the shed door to reveal two gleaming quad bikes. Greg grinned boyishly, and John couldn't help but grin back.

"Ever ridden one of these before, Dr Watson?" Dennis asked.

"I have, yeah."

"Good. Ignition, gas, brakes, all fairly simple. They're filled up, so you've got a couple of hours worth of gas. D'Artagnan and Richelieu are used to them, so long as you don't get too close and don't gun the engine too much when you're right next to them. If you do come across other riders, slow down and let them pass before opening them up again."

"D'Artagnan and Richelieu?" John whispered to Greg.

"The horses," Greg whispered back. "D'Artagnan is Sherlock's, Mycroft's is Richelieu, obviously."

"Follow Greg's lead. He's been out on these with the horses before and knows how to handle them. If you do run into trouble, call and we'll come get you with the Jeep."

Dennis nodded to them and turned back to the house, leaving them to it.

It was a matter of moments for John to familiarize himself with the bike again, as he had indeed driven them in the past, and in a minute they had driven out of the shed and made a slow circle to end up behind the brothers on horseback. John carefully watched the distance Greg kept and how much he let his engine roar, but the horses didn't flinch or seem to mind the noise at all.

"Ready?" Mycroft called. Receiving nods, he set off, Sherlock following, the quads a little behind.

They started at a trot, and while John was getting a feel for the quad, he still had time to appreciate Sherlock's straight, perfect posture as he became one with the horse. Mycroft too made an impressive figure, and Greg let his eyes wander over him more than once. As soon as they had left the farm grounds proper and came into meadows and trees, John started to understand. This was evidently a big piece of land, where several paths, tracks and lanes had been carved out in such a way that an experienced horse and rider could really let go and get some serious exercise. He even spotted several jumps, but was relieved to see that Sherlock and Mycroft avoided those. 

At first, they kept the pace sedate, the brothers clearly getting reacquainted with their horses again, and Greg pulled alongside Mycroft close enough that they could speak to each other. Sherlock fell back and motioned for John to join him. After carefully checking that neither horse was bothered by the noise of the quad, he came up next to Sherlock.

"Well, John? Is this the kind of riding you can enjoy for a few hours?"

John grinned up at him.

"You know it is, you bastard. I love this."

"Good. Once we get a bit further away, you will get the chance to open your mount up a little."

"Sherlock? Why is your horse called D'Artagnan? I didn't know you had a thing for musketeers?"

His companion sighed. 

"When D'Artagnan and Richelieu were born, it was Mycroft's turn to come up with names. He persuaded me that musketeers had rapiers and swords and were almost the same as swashbuckling pirates."

"Ah, okay," John nodded. Then, after biting his lip for a few moments: "Sherlock? How old are these horses?"

"They're coming up on their eighth birthday soon. Why?"

"Mycroft convinced you musketeers and pirates were basically similar eight years ago?"

"Yes. Why?"

"No, nothing. No reason."

Sherlock shrugged and prodded his horse to catch up to Mycroft. John stared after him. The consulting detective, one of the most brilliant men alive, really was an adorable child sometimes.

*****

They were perhaps twenty minutes into their ride when they came to a large meadow. Looking around and spotting no one else in the vicinity, Mycroft and Sherlock glanced at each other, then set off in a gallop. Their horses flew across the grass, trying to outrun each other. Greg laughed and motioned John over. 

"They'll race each other for a bit. Want to do the same?"

John wanted to, but was still a little worried about spooking the horses. Seeing this, Greg explained.

"They'll stay on that side of the meadow, race up and down a bit. If we stay on this side, the engines won't bother the horses."

"Okay then, show me what you've got!"

And they too set off. They were laughing and cheering, racing and trying to get the most out of their machines, and within minutes John was covered in mud. He appreciated Greg's warning about his clothes and bringing fresh ones with him. It was only when Greg motioned to the other side of the meadow that John slowed down and saw the Holmeses watching them from their panting and frothing mounts.

"Having fun?" Mycroft asked with a benign smile.

John threw his head back in laughter as his answer, and Lestrade just grinned like a little boy.

When the horses had rested a little, they continued on their journey. They followed several of the paths and tracks, sometimes wide enough that they could ride together and talk a little, sometimes so narrow and bumpy that they needed all their skill to negotiate the passage in a single line. When they came to open meadows, they raced, and John learned that over short distances, the horses could certainly keep up with his quad. It was nearly three hours later when they at last returned to the farmhouse.

Dennis and the same woman from before appeared on their arrival, and while Dennis took charge of the quads and spoke to Greg and John about their performance, the woman did the same for the horses. Both brothers affectionately patted their horses goodbye, and watched them be led away.

"John, you look a fright, covered in mud. Come, we must shower and change."

Mycroft and Greg also went inside, as John followed Sherlock upstairs. Entering one of the rooms behind Sherlock, John found it to be a bedroom with attached bath, and the clothes Sherlock had been wearing earlier tossed onto the bed.

"It's nice of Dennis to lend you these rooms?" he half asked, half stated.

Sherlock frowned.

"These are our rooms, John. Dennis lives here alone and has no need of them, and after all, it is our farm."

"Right," John breathed. How could he ever have believed Sherlock needed a roommate at 221B to share the rent with? Mycroft's mansion, the old cider mill, even the parents' cottage, now this farm… and the casual acceptance that a room such as this, almost as large as the entire first floor of 221B, would go uninhabited for ages, only used on those few days when Sherlock and Mycroft decided to come out riding. He was pulled out of his thoughts by the sight of Sherlock casually undressing. 

"Want me to wait downstairs?"

"No. Why? I want you to undress and come shower with me."

"Oh… alright. Ehm… it's just…"

"Is there a problem? I have had a tiring ride and wish to clean up, and would like to have your company while we do so. Unless…" Sherlock hesitated, "you don't want to?"

Seeing the usual imperious confidence fall away to make room for doubt, John shook himself.

"Yeah, of course. Of course I want to."

The tension coiling in Sherlock abated a little, and, now naked, he strode into the bathroom.

'Right,' John said to himself, 'it's not about sex. We're both dirty and need to get clean, and he wants to do it together. Does he even realize that normally when two people shower together, it's…' Shaking his head, John dropped the last of his own clothes and followed Sherlock into the shower.

*****

In the next room, Mycroft and Greg had no such communication difficulties. They'd worked those out years ago. Greg happily followed Mycroft into the shower, knowing he'd get to wash his lover's body, sneak in a kiss or three, but that was all that would happen. And Mycroft enjoyed washing Gregory, especially shampooing his luscious silver hair, and Mycroft would get a deep satisfaction out of being so close to his partner and getting to check him over for any perceived injuries, something My worried over constantly.

"Did you enjoy yourself this morning, my dearest?"

Lestrade first groaned softly at the feeling of those strong, elegant fingers massaging lather onto his scalp. Then he answered.

"You know I did. Great fun, those quads. And seeing you all prim and proper atop a horse, like some eighteenth century nobleman. Me, the rough and unsophisticated gamekeeper or gardener, following you with my gaze, imagining all the ways I could try to persuade you off your horse and out of your suit, allowing me to unwrap you and debauch you…"

"Gregory!" Mycroft sounded almost scandalized. Then he hesitated. "You fantasize about such things? About me?"

Lestrade risked shampoo burn in his eyes and opened them to look straight at Mycroft without saying a word.

"Oh."

Then Mycroft smiled and returned to his scalp massage.

"Have you been reading bodice rippers again, Gregory?"

"Might have," Lestrade replied, eyes closed again. "They're fun." And before Mycroft could snort, Greg defended himself. "Hey! I happen to know people who have a thing for pirates, or musketeers, or, you know, detectives or army captains. I don't think well dressed noblemen are so very different from that sort of thing."

Mycroft chuckled.

"And that reference to my brother and his paramour is the end of my burgeoning erection, thank you. I think you are quite clean and hale, Gregory. Please rinse while I dry myself, and we can dress."

Gregory grinned.

"Of course, love."

*****

It wasn't too long after, having bid their fond farewells to Dennis, that they were all in the car again.

"The Bull & Castle, please," Mycroft told the driver.

Lestrade's face once again lit up, and he grinned at John. It was only a few minutes after they had left the farm grounds that the driver pulled into a small square in a tiny town along the way. Getting out of the car, John spotted the sign for the Bull & Castle, clearly a pub style place. He also spotted the line out the door. Mycroft pushed through, giving the young man at the small seating desk his name. The boy scanned the page, looked at the imposing man in front of him, and faltered.

"I'm sorry, sir, we're fully booked. And I don't have your name here."

John nearly giggled, but managed to hold it back. He'd never seen anyone dismiss Mycroft before, however politely.

"I did speak to Anthony earlier this morning. Is he perhaps here?" Mycroft remained quite civil.

"One moment, sir," the boy said, and picked up the phone, turning around and speaking frantically into the device. Moments later, a slightly more mature man dressed in waiter's costume appeared. 

"Mr Holmes! I do apologize! I had your reservation put in immediately, of course, but evidently something went wrong."

"Does that mean there is no room for us?" Mycroft actually looked a little crestfallen.

"Of course not, sir, I had a table put together for you instantly! Please, follow me, gentlemen."

John looked around. It was pub style, old, dark wood tables, chairs and benches, paneling along the walls, and a very impressive bar with even more impressive bottles behind it. They were brought to a table which was on a slight rise, so it offered a view of the village green over the heads of those seated below. He saw the stairs and heard noise and laughter from up there, surmising this pub was spread over several floors. But obviously this was one of the better tables, and John wondered how much the pub would have to compensate the people originally planned for this table today for giving it away to Mycroft.

The waiter who'd brought them to the table remained, and Mycroft and Sherlock immediately ordered a fancy whisky from him. Greg chose a local beer. John stared at the impressive bar a little more, then went for a gin & tonic. The waiter left for their drinks, and John grasped one of the menu cards in the holder in the middle of the table. He barely got a glance at it before Sherlock ripped it out of his hands and put it back in the holder, but it was pub food. He just couldn't imagine Sherlock and Mycroft ordering any of that.

The waiter returned with their drinks.

"Have you made a choice for lunch, gentlemen?"

"The ribs for me, please," Lestrade rumbled, already rubbing his tummy.

"Fish and chips," Sherlock said.

"For me the ploughman's lunch," Mycroft offered.

And while John was still goggling at Mycroft for that, Sherlock told the waiter: "And my friend here will have the burger and chips."

*****

It was pub food, but it was like no pub food John had ever eaten. When the food arrived, John's nose was assaulted with delicious smells. Greg's plate, piled high with succulent ribs, dripped gravy and flavor. But Lestrade abandoned it almost immediately, after a very appreciative sniff, for pouring over Mycroft's platter, piled high with charcuterie, cheeses, pickles and artisan bread.

"Is that the apple jelly?" Greg asked, eyes fixed on a dark puddle in one of the many tiny bowls on Mycroft's platter.

Mycroft sighed, picked up his spoon and carefully picked up a tiny quantity of the jelly, then handed it to Lestrade. The silver haired man took it, carefully licked every single molecule of it off the spoon, and handed the implement back.

"I love you," Greg whispered, and John knew what Greg really wanted was to kiss Mycroft. But even here, away from London, away from their jobs, he didn't dare.

"Don't be dramatic, dearest," Mycroft huffed. "One bite of those ribs and you'll forget all about me and my apple jelly."

"Never," Lestrade replied, and John as good as heard and saw the 'I love you so much' that was really meant.

Next, waiter Anthony delivered a plate of fish and chips, with mushy peas, malt vinegar and salt and spices on the side to Sherlock. The consulting child wrapped his arm around it, protecting it from John, saying: "If you can finish your burger, you may have one or two of my chips. But not until after then, John."

John's laughter stifled in his throat when his order was delivered. It was not that the burger was particularly large, but it was piled high, looked too delicious for words, dripping juice all over the buns, and the mountain of chips on the side with various dips made his mouth water.

Before he could figure out how to tackle his burger without dripping juice and sauce all over himself, Lestrade picked up one of the ribs with his fingers and carefully added it to Mycroft's platter, then did the same for Sherlock. In return, he received a few pieces of fish from Sherlock and some cheese and meat from Mycroft. It was done so casually it was clear this was a common occurrence. 

"You want one too, John? I'd recommend it. You really want to taste these, mate."

John quickly counted. There were still seven ribs left on Greg's plate. They weren't huge, but they had plenty of meat on them.

"I wouldn't want to deprive you of your meal, Greg."

Lestrade smiled.

"No worries. Just give me some of your chips in return."

They exchanged the food, and Greg happily brought his first rib to his mouth, getting gravy all over his fingers and lips. Again goggling a little, John saw Sherlock and even Mycroft doing the same, and followed suit. The flavor burst on his tongue, making his mouth tingle with pleasure. His teeth tore at the flesh, chomping on the bits and pieces and scraping the bone clean. By the time he put the stripped bone down, Mycroft and Sherlock were already wiping their fingers and faces clean after dipping into the bowl of warm lemon water that came with Greg's dish, which he had placed in the middle of the table. John did the same.

"Those are truly amazing, Greg."

Lestrade just nodded with happy eyes, his mouth busy stripping his second rib of meat. John tackled his burger, picking it up trying to maintain its shape, and looked around to see if he would be judged for it. But Sherlock was using his fingers too, breaking off pieces of fish and dipping them in sauce and peas, licking everything off his fingertips with an agile tongue, then picking up a chip to dip into vinegar, salt and spices in perfect proportions and closing his lips around it. Mycroft, meanwhile, had used his knife to cut some of the pieces of meat and cheese into smaller bites, and was now using his fingers to hold one of those pieces and a spoon to pile pickle onto it before sliding it into his mouth. John felt much more comfortable, and took a huge bite of the burger. He barely managed to hold back a moan of delight as the delicate mingle of flavors and textures mixed in his mouth as he chewed. 

"Good, John?"

Sherlock gave him a knowing smile as he slowly licked his own fingertips. John just knew Sherlock was doing that on purpose, and his cheeks flushed for more than one reason as he nodded.

The meal itself was rather quiet, they were all concentrating on eating. While very different from the dinner at Renard the evening before, John enjoyed it equally as much. At some point, Mycroft signaled Anthony for a refill of their drinks, which arrived promptly. John decided he could get used to the kind of service Mycroft apparently got everywhere he went.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was Sherlock who stopped eating first and leant back in his seat, even though there were still several pieces of fish and plenty of chips left on his plate. John had finished his burger, and was now focusing on his chips, and Sherlock pushed over his plate so John had access to his bowls of salt, spice and vinegar, which he gladly used. Greg still had two ribs left, having interspersed them with the fish, chips and bits off Mycroft's plate he'd received earlier, and was taking a small break, sipping his drink. Mycroft carefully constructed another bite, a small piece of bread, meat and cheese, pickle and apple sauce, and held it out to his brother. Sherlock didn't hesitate a single second, simply leaned forward and took the bite from his brother's fingers. In return, Sherlock took one of his chips and loaded it with vinegar and spices, and held it out to Mycroft, who had no compunction accepting it from his brother's hand. 

'Yes,' John thought, 'how could I ever have believed they loathed each other?'

Lestrade let Mycroft and Sherlock share the last of his ribs, while he took payment for it from their left over fish and meats and cheese, and snagged a few chips from John's plate in the process. In fact, the last of their meal was a bit of a free for all, each one reaching over and picking what they wanted from the left overs on the others' platters. Between them, they managed to finish the lot.

Mycroft signed for the check with a flourish, and as waiter Anthony showed them out, John saw Mycroft have a quiet word with him and slip him quite a bit of cash. Sloppy, John thought. Normally, Mycroft would never let him see something like that. Then the same thing happened with the boy at the seating desk, although the amount of cash was clearly far less.

"He wanted you to see that," Sherlock whispered into John's ear as they stood outside waiting for the car. "He doesn't want you to think he'd let the pub pay for the people whose table we'd taken, and he admired the boy for defying him. It also means both Anthony and the boy will be only too happy to accommodate us next time we turn up."

Mycroft glared at his brother, clearly aware of yet another of his secrets being revealed, and looked defiantly at John when he handed his driver a delicious smelling bag with the pub's logo that had mysteriously appeared in his hand.

Lestrade chuckled.

"Admit it, My. We already know you're a softie at heart."

Mycroft frowned.

"I am not soft. It is merely good business practice and cementing future relations."

"Right," John said, and smiled along with the other two, as Mycroft huffed and stared out of the window.

*****

Once they had returned home, Mycroft had a quick word with Austin and Mrs Weaver, then retreated to his office to make some calls. Sherlock and John stayed with Lestrade in the sitting room for a while, before Sherlock started to fidget and pulled John outside with him for a walk along the grounds.

Greg was left alone with his thoughts, and he wasn't too happy about them.

A throat clearing itself called his attention back to the present. Lestrade turned around to find Austin standing in the doorway.

"Yes?" Greg asked.

"Mr Holmes would like to see you in his study, Mr Lestrade. Now, if you please."

Confused, Greg nodded.

"Yeah, sure. Sure, I'll go right away."

Wondering whether he'd done anything wrong, Greg went to the study Mycroft had retreated to more than an hour ago. He knocked and entered, closing the door behind him, then stared.

Mycroft was in one of his suits, a full three piece, but instead of a tie he had on a cravat. He looked every inch the country gentleman of Greg's fantasies. 

"Mr Lestrade," Mycroft said sternly. "I've noticed the rosebushes have seriously gotten out of control. I expect you, as groundskeeper, to see to the proper tending of my garden."

For a few seconds, Lestrade was confused. Then he sucked in a breath, realizing what his lover was trying to give him, and loving him all the more for it. But his short hesitation had made Mycroft doubt, and Greg hated the insecurity on his lover's face. He quickly rallied.

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes. It's just that… that the pond has needed dredging and the laurels pruning, and… and there was weeds in the vegetable patch, Sir."

Another short tenseness, then Mycroft relaxed again.

"There WERE weeds, Mr Lestrade, not was. Please do speak civilly."

"Yes Sir, Mr Holmes." If Greg had had a cap, he would have twisted it between his fingers. "And please believe me, I would like nothing better than to tend to your garden, Sir."

Mycroft barely contained a smirk. Trust Greg to pick up on that.

"Well, you shall have to do a better job than this, Mr Lestrade! If I cannot trust you to appreciate my most delicate prizes, I see no need for your services."

"Please, Mr Holmes," Lestrade begged, stepping forward. "I love your garden, and your most delicate rose, and servicing you. Please, let me tend to them again, show you I'm worthy."

Mycroft couldn't help himself. Greg's words set him on fire, his already burning state of arousal solidifying itself in his trousers. He turned around, and watched Gregory in the reflection of the glass covering his bookcases. The leer Greg gave his arse was clear and very satisfying.

"I'm not certain, Mr Lestrade. You say you are committed, but my garden is drooping and bereft. My most prized rose is itching for your attentions, and here you are, using words instead of actions."

"Mr Holmes," Greg breathed, and if Mycroft hadn't seen him move closer in the reflection of the glass, he would have been startled, "I can make your garden sturdy and rising to its promising rigidity again, Sir. It just needs a bit of lip service. Please, I'll get on my knees and crouch before your garden, using my tongue to get your stalk to rise again as it should be, Sir. Then I'll tend to your rose, and plough it as it deserves and needs."

"Your proposal is positively impudent, Mr Lestrade," Mycroft answered, turning around.

"Yes, Sir. And yet you want to accept it, Sir."

When Greg sank to his knees in front of Mycroft, looking up at him through his lashes, Mycroft's breath hitched. Gregory, in his jeans and t-shirt, didn't exactly look like an eighteenth century gardener, but he played his part well. And what most got to Mycroft was the eagerness, the want and desire he saw in his lover. 

"Mr Lestrade, I…"

"Please let me, Mr Holmes," Greg said, and quickly opened Mycroft's trousers to swallow him down. Mycroft stared into the eyes of his lover as he gently cradled his head, and when a little later Lestrade moved the two of them towards the desk, pulling Mycroft's trousers down further and with quick preparation bent Mycroft over the desk and settled himself inside him, Mycroft groaned in pleasure.

"So beautiful, Mr Holmes, so tight."

Mycroft gasped as Greg shifted his hips and pressed a little deeper.

"I thought you wanted to peel me out of my suit," he gasped again. "Mr Lestrade!"

"Next time, Mr Holmes. Right now, I just want to show you I can take care of you and your rose and garden."

Greg scratched his fingers through Mycroft's pubic hairs, knowing it wouldn't take much for his lover, not while he was inside of him. Mycroft squirmed.

"Mr Lestr.. Gregory! Please!"

That was what Greg was waiting for. The desperate begging, the longing. He shifted to a higher gear, and finished them both quickly. Afterwards, he leaned onto Mycroft's form prone over the desk, something that in ten years, they'd had very few times.

He kissed the back of Mycroft's neck.

"Love you, My," Greg whispered softly, almost afraid.

"I love you deeply, Gregory."

Lestrade buried his face in Mycroft's neck, not saying anything, but Mycroft felt the slight dampness of tears on his skin.

"I do, Gregory. I really do."

"Thank you, My."

And if Mycroft didn't know whether the thanks were for the little fantasy or the love, he didn't show any of that to his lover.

*****

Sherlock took John for a walk on the grounds, this time taking him to see the bees, something he hadn't done when he'd given John his first tour of the property. John was a little apprehensive of being stung, especially when a large group of bees came out of a hive and started circling them, but Sherlock dismissed his fears with a wave of his hand.

"Don't attack them and they won't attack you, John. They're just curious."

They stayed there only a few minutes, Sherlock telling him about the hives, and then continued their walk until they came to the orchard. Sherlock chose a spot under one of the trees, in dappled sunlight, and sat down with his back against the tree, motioning for John to settle himself between his legs, his back resting against Sherlock's chest. It was the first time John felt more like a submissive partner. Up until now, it had always been him holding Sherlock, or Sherlock tucking into him. He recognized it as Sherlock coming back to his more normal self, confident and in control, and that's why he liked it. He also liked the way Sherlock's long arms held him protectively, and the soft kisses the detective was pressing against the back and side of his neck.

"John," Sherlock asked between kisses, "why did you hesitate this morning about joining me in the shower? I thought that would be something you would like."

"I did like it," John replied, eyes closed and a bit distracted by the kisses, "but I didn't know what you meant by it."

"What did you think I meant by it?"

"Well, see, that's the thing. Normally when someone asks you to share their shower, it means 'come do sexy things with me'. But with you, I mean, we've only kissed, and I didn't think you'd mean that, and…"

"What?"

"Well, Sherlock…" John sighed, "I don't know… I don't know how much experience you have… you know, with this sort of thing."

"Romance? None."

"Sex?"

"Some."

Startled by that answer, John pulled back and turned a little so he could look at Sherlock. The detective sighed and pressed another light kiss to John's lips this time, then turned him back around. John understood. Sometimes, it was easier to talk when you weren't looking at each other.

"Despite what has been implied in the past, I am not without experience in that area, John. It was quite some time ago, during my darker days, but I have penetrated and been penetrated, if that's what concerns you."

John fought hard to control his surprise at that admission, but knew Sherlock could feel it, the way their bodies were pressed together.

"You… you have?"

"Hmmm."

"Did you… did you like it?"

"Not particularly. Hence why I have not done it again in a long time."

Trying to process that, John's thoughts suddenly turned dark.

"Sherlock… You weren't… forced, were you?"

Sherlock chuckled.

"Nothing of the sort, John. It was completely voluntary each time. You should know by now I am perfectly capable of defending myself."

Sighing with relief, John relaxed again.

"But you didn't enjoy it."

"Not really, no. The release of endorphins was pleasurable, I suppose, but the experience itself left me quite cold."

"So… that's probably not something you'd be looking for again, then."

Sherlock hesitated a little.

"I spoke to Mycroft about it, as he is most likely the only one to understand. The conversation was uncomfortable, but we managed to struggle through. He admitted to similar experiences, though to a lesser degree. When he asked me what I was thinking during these encounters, and I rattled off the thoughts, sensations and deductions, he smiled. Then he explained to me that he had felt the same, until the first time he had intercourse with Greg."

Shocked, John tried to pull away and turn around again, but Sherlock held him tightly in place.

"You're telling me your brother told you about having sex with Lestrade and you listened??"

"No. He told me that when he made love with Greg, he didn't think, he just felt."

Struggling to process that, John remained quiet for a bit, until Sherlock spoke again.

"When I kiss you, when we are like this, John, my mind goes quiet. I think, when the time comes for you and I to interlock our bodies, I shall just feel, as Mycroft described. And then it will be pleasurable."

John, quite bewildered and a little bit daunted, thought about that as they sat quietly. Sherlock wanted to have sex with him, at some point in the future, and expected to like it, despite his previous experiences, because he expected his mind would be silent. That was an awful lot of pressure, especially since Sherlock apparently had experience that John didn't. He'd never had sex with a man, and though he knew the logistics of course, lacked the practical experience. How could he ensure that if… when… he made love to Sherlock, it would be good enough to have him like it? And want to do it again?

They sat together for a little while longer, Sherlock understanding that John needed some time to think, before they went back to the house.

*****

John and Sherlock found Greg and Mycroft in the sitting room, nuzzled together on the couch in front of the television. Though he couldn't be certain, the nuzzling and the soft glow around the pair told John that Greg and Mycroft had had a little quality time together, and again he worried about having that with Sherlock.

"Ah, Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed upon their arrival, "Your timing is admirable. The ride of this morning has left me with a few aching muscles…" Sherlock smirked, knowing with a single look at his brother and Lestrade that it was not just the horse ride that had left his brother aching… "and I have requested William to provide his services as massage therapist at the pool. May I assume you would also like to partake?"

At the prospect of a massage, Sherlock let go of his teasing smirk and settled into a smile.

"Thank you, My, that would indeed be most pleasurable."

"Then shall we all repair to the pool? We have quite some time until dinner, and can relax under William's good care there."

Simply following along after the other three, John found himself in the changing room a few minutes later. He wondered who this William was that was apparently trusted enough to actually touch the Holmes brothers, when John knew full well that neither of them particularly liked to be touched by most people. Seeing the other three were only wrapping towels around their hips instead of changing into shorts, he again followed suit. When he entered the pool area, he understood. William was apparently one of the footmen. Trust Mycroft to have staff specialized in all the things that made him comfortable. William smiled encouragingly, almost pleased.

"The sauna and hot tub are ready for you, Sirs," he told the three of them, before turning to Mycroft. "May I invite you onto my table, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock disappeared into the sauna while Greg and John chose the hot tub, and John was a little surprised to see Mycroft showing no hesitation in baring himself in front of a member of his staff, letting the man help him comfortably onto the professional massage table and having him cover his bare buttocks with a small white towel. As William poured oil and set to work with a smile, John whispered to Greg.

"I thought he didn't like to be touched?"

"Neither of them do, certainly not by strangers and not by people they don't trust. But whoever gets to be in this house is trusted, John." 

Lestrade looked at him meaningfully. John nodded.

"Did he hire William because of his massaging abilities?"

"No. William came here nine years ago. He's a distant cousin of Austin's." 

John looked surprised. Greg chuckled.

"It takes a special connection to get into this house, John. It isn't like Mycroft would just contact Butlers-R-Us when he needs help here."

They grinned at each other.

"So, William had some experience being a footman, but wasn't very happy. Austin spoke to Mycroft, who loathed William's employer anyway, and was only too happy at Austin's recommendation to hire him away from there. Then about six years ago, William's wife - girlfriend then - was in a car accident. She wasn't badly hurt, but had muscle pains, you know, like whiplash? The doctor recommended massage therapy, and Mycroft of course offered to pay for it. William said he'd much rather do it himself, so he could help his girlfriend whenever she needed it instead of having to wait for an appointment. So Mycroft paid for him to go on an extended massage therapy course instead. As thanks, and to keep up his skill, William offers his services to Mycroft whenever he wants. Mycroft paid for the wedding too. Lovely do. William's wife Christy does the flowers for the house, she's a florist. They live rent free in one of the cottages on the east side of the property. Christy's pregnant now with their first child, due to arrive in three months or so. Mycroft secretly hopes to be asked to be the godfather."

The more John heard about Mycroft, the more he wondered how he could have ever misjudged the man so terribly.

The two men settled back into the jets and swirls of the hot tub, and Lestrade listened and twitched at every moan of pleasure-pain that came from Mycroft, the signs of a good deep tissue massage. John just thought again.

After a while, Sherlock came out of the sauna and uncaringly stepped under the ice cold waterfall shower to cool off, then jumped into the pool to swim some laps. John considered it odd he felt so comfortable with all of them being naked - except William, who was still torturing/helping Mycroft with his sore muscles - but couldn't care less at this point. Nothing with the Holmes brothers was ever normal, and this was just one of those things, he supposed. By the time Sherlock was finished with his laps, William was helping Mycroft sit up, giving him a bottle of cool water to rehydrate, and called out to Sherlock.

"Mr Sherlock? Care for a massage?"

Sherlock uncaringly and unashamedly climbed naked out of the pool and headed for the table, taking his brother's place when Mycroft had felt steady enough to get up. Mycroft had wrapped his towel around his hips again, and sat at the edge of the pool, dipping his feet in the water and drinking from his proffered bottle, a bit dazed at the touches still thrumming through his body. When Sherlock, now on the receiving end of William's care, started moaning, John got out of the hot tub. He stood under the cold waterfall as Sherlock had done, cooling himself down, then went into the sauna. Lestrade followed suit.

When they were both lying on the lower benches of the sauna, eyes closed and bodies relaxing in the warmth, John spoke again, knowing they couldn't be heard in here.

"Greg?"

"Hmmm?"

"Sherlock said he wants to have sex with me."

Lestrade coughed, then regained his composure and answered.

"Okay?"

"I… I'm not quite sure. I'm worried."

"About what?"

"He said he's had sex before, but didn't like it."

John held his breath, waiting for Lestrade's answer.

"Yeah, I know."

"He said he wasn't forced."

"He wasn't."

"How do you know?"

"Mycroft would've known, and rained down holy hellfire on anyone who'd touched his little brother against his will."

John swallowed.

"Yeah. I suppose so."

"Believe it."

They were silent for a while, before John started up again.

"He said he talked to Mycroft about your first time together."

"What?" Greg choked.

"He said that if anyone could understand, it would be Mycroft. And that Mycroft had told him that when the two of you first… made love… Mycroft's mind went quiet and he could just feel and enjoy."

John squinted one of his eyes open and looked at Greg, seeing the man swallow and wipe away a small tear.

"Yeah…"

They were quiet again. This time it was Greg who broke the silence.

"When I first got together with Mycroft, I knew it would have to be slow. Even slower than gaining Sherlock's trust. As we told you we started exploring our relationship when Sherlock was doing better, and then he relapsed and we put everything on hold. By that time, we'd shared no more than kisses and cuddles on the sofa. I loved him, but there's no pressuring Mycroft Holmes, and I wouldn't want to anyway. After Sherlock's recovery and our chat at his flat at Montague Street, when he sort of gave us his blessing, it was still months before we finally got together in that sense. When we were kissing, Mycroft was receptive and even eager, but whenever I even suggested something more, he withdrew."

Lestrade cleared his throat, and raised his head to look at his naked companion.

"And John, I hope you realize that if you ever let on to knowing any of this, it will mean your death."

John chuckled, but his answer was sincere.

"I know."

"Okay. So I'm trying to figure out if Mycroft's just not into it, or not into me, or if there's something else. And then, a few months after we'd officially been together again - even though no one but Sherlock knew about it - we're getting into the mood again, and it's going great, and then he pulls back. And I'm on my knees, practically begging for it, and I say to him 'Mycroft, if you don't want this, don't want me, just say so. I don't care. I love kissing you and holding you, and if that's all you'll ever want to share with me, that's fine, but just tell me'. And he's horrified, I can tell from his expression, and if you know a Holmes, you know it's very telling that you can glean anything from their expressions."

John chuckled again, conceding the point, but eager for the rest of the story.

"And then he tells me. Stuff from when he was at university, the last time he'd tried anything like a relationship. And it was horrible to hear for me, and even more horrible for him to tell. Never having had even any friends, he'd had no idea what to do about attraction, and he got reamed for it. It wasn't good."

Greg swallowed.

"No… no rape, specifically, but as good as."

This time John was the one who swallowed an uneasy lump in his throat.

"So we talked about it, and talked, and one day, it just happened. We were both relaxed and enjoying ourselves, and before I knew it, we were… well, more intimately connected than we'd ever been before. And he seemed to love it, and he even took the initiative after that, and we were together several times. Then one night, we were in bed, kissing and touching, and I really wanted him, and he seemed willing, rolling over for me. And then he just stopped, just lay there. John, I… I was kissing him and caressing him and… it took me a few moments to notice and those moments have haunted me ever since. I thank God I did notice though, because if I hadn't… Christ, that would've been rape. I would've…"

Distress pouring off him in obvious waves, Lestrade had sat up and John as well. John gathered the trembling man in his arms and hushed him, whispering nonsensical soothing sounds until Greg shuddered and pulled himself together. Clearing his throat a few times, Lestrade made to speak again.

"You don't have to, Greg. It's okay."

"I do have to. You need to understand."

Lestrade closed this eyes and continued.

"I was horrified. I should have realized, with what he'd told me. I should have known he'd let me… even if he didn't want to."

Greg sighed.

"That's why I always ask. He won't lie to me, not about that. We both know better now. But it took a long time to get there, you know?"

Lestrade looked at his friend, grateful for the comforting arm still around him even in the heat of the sauna.

"Sherlock's not… not quite like that. He chose the experiences he had, and the people he had them with. He wasn't attracted in the sense that Mycroft was to his few partners. He wasn't used, he used them. Do you understand, John?"

Still reeling from what he'd been told, and still holding his friend, John took his time before he nodded.

"Yes, Greg, I do understand. And I'm sorry for what happened, to Mycroft, to you, and even to Sherlock."

Lestrade smiled at him, a small smile, but genuine.

"Thanks, John."

"Am I interrupting something?" Mycroft asked as he entered the sauna, towel still wrapped around his waist.

"No, My. Never." Lestrade answered, smiling at the man.

"Well, William is nearly done with Sherlock, and asked whether either of you would like to partake of his expertise as well."

Lestrade swallowed back his emotions and nodded.

"Love to," he said, and exited the sauna, pressing a kiss to Mycroft's cheek as he went.

*****

"So, Dr Watson…" Mycroft started when he'd sat down after Gregory had left the sauna.

"I'm back to official titles, am I? Never a good sign," John replied, eying the towel-clad man at his side.

Mycroft glanced back at him.

"I do apologize. John. This is not easy for me, and I do tend to fall back onto formality when…"

"Yeah, I know. It's okay, Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed.

"Gregory has told you certain things. Do not worry, you have not told me, I merely… extrapolated from your appearances when I entered. For the sake of avoiding any misunderstandings… does this have anything to do with my brother's expression of the wish to engage in sexual intercourse with you?"

John closed his eyes and cursed under his breath.

"Is anything with the two of you still secret?"

Mycroft chuckled.

"Please, John."

"Yeah. Yeah, alright."

"Is there anything I can do or say to assuage your fears or hesitation, John?"

John grinned ruefully.

"No. I don't think so. Talking about him in that way with you would just make me feel more uncomfortable."

Mycroft glanced at him knowingly.

"Then please do endure the discomfort, John. I… would like to… explain."

John scrunched his eyes shut.

"Please don't. Please…"

"Not like that, John. Only in the sense that I can see that my brother loves you in the way that I love Gregory. You are quite essential to him, as Gregory is to me. Quite essential. Holmeses with a weakness for a person, it's almost unheard of, and quite undesirable from a protection point of view, as you have unfortunately already experienced. Gregory pretends not to notice, of course, considerate man that he is, but his crime scenes when he does venture out are the most secure I can make them. I attempt to have eyes on him everywhere and my people are never far away. The same goes for Sherlock, of course, but he is less willing to accept it and often tries to slip away from his protection."

John squinted at Mycroft.

"And me?"

Mycroft looked at him steadily.

"Ever since I realized your importance to my brother, you have been monitored."

Then he sighed.

"Unfortunately, you have the same tendency as my brother for slipping your detail, and as a result, both of you have been attacked and hurt in the past. I can only hope that, now knowing this and in light of the new developments in your relationship, you will try to evade me less and allow me to look after you."

The pained and pleading look on Mycroft's face told John exactly how serious he was.

"I'll… I'll try."

"Thank you. That is, I suppose, the best I can wish for. Now, with regard to you and my brother and sex…"

John's face burned and he groaned in embarrassment. But then he heard Mycroft chuckle, and when he looked at the man, he saw mischievous mirth sparkling in his normally cold eyes.

"… do not worry about it overly much, John. Sherlock will proceed at his own pace. Perhaps he shall even be faster about it than you. If so, do not hesitate to tell him so. He does know that this is new for you as well, the sexual aspect of it even newer to you than to him. He will pout probably, but he will understand."

John nodded.

"I trust that, as a doctor, you are at least in theory familiar with the specifics of man-on-man sex, as it is sometimes called. If you would like me to enlighten you in more detail, however, I can point you to some very informative research material, or of course, share with you certain personal experiences…"

"Mycroft!" John interrupted, face flushed completely red and feeling horrified at the prospect. Then he noticed the body beside his shaking. He looked up to see Mycroft, disheveled, sweating, still clutching a half full bottle of water, shuddering in an attempt to hold in his laughter, his eyes twinkling so brightly they rivaled the stars. John couldn't help but grin back.

"Oh, you bastard!" he exclaimed, and then both of them gave in and collapsed in laughter.

*****

Some time later, Lestrade slid off the massage table in a deeply satisfied, boneless puddle of goo, and sat at the edge of the pool, feet dipping in, with his own bottle of water. Sherlock had taken one of the air beds and was floating around, drink provided by Austin in hand, and John was invited onto the table by William. While John was expertly reduced to a whimpering puddle as well by William's strong hands, Mycroft joined his lover at the edge of the pool with a drink, getting one for Greg as well when he finished his water. After about half an hour, William was done with John and took his leave to a chorus of grateful thanks, leaving the four men to relax some more before dinner.

"That was totally amazing," John said, settling back with a drink.

"Hmmm," Lestrade replied. The detective inspector had leaned back into Mycroft, letting the taller man support his frame, one of Mycroft's long arms wrapped tightly around his chest, the other reaching up to continuously stroke his fingers through Lestrade's silver hair. It was the first time John had seen this reversal of roles, and it reminded him of himself and Sherlock a few hours earlier in the garden. It seemed Mycroft was finding his footing again too, no longer the emotional turmoil of the past few days reducing his stature. This was the Mycroft that John had seen so many times before, in charge, strong and confident, ready to rule the world. And he thought, perhaps the greatest strength of both Greg and Mycroft was exactly that, the ability to lean back and let the other take over when needed.

Partners, he thought. 

John looked to the other side of the pool, where Sherlock was floating while humming quietly to himself.

I want that too, he thought.

*****

After a relatively light dinner and a few hours of fun boardgames, they went to bed at midnight. John was only slightly disappointed when Sherlock went to his own room. He understood that with Sherlock's rising confidence, he would like his own space, and John didn't resent it. In all honesty, he could do with a little space himself after having been in near constant contact with the other three for days.

At five in the morning, the bombs went off.

*****


	2. Chapter 2

*****

Anthea didn't even try to be quiet as she hurried down the corridor to Mycroft and Greg's room. She knocked loudly and entered simultaneously, only vaguely hearing Sherlock and John's doors opening at the commotion. Greg was already sitting up, shaking Mycroft awake.

"Sir? Sir, are you awake?" she asked, looking at her boss' blinking eyes.

"Yes. What is it?"

Sherlock and John entered the bedroom to listen too.

"Four explosions in the greater London area, Sir. Seven minutes ago. All four at exactly the same time. Looks like bombs, certainly not accidental." She gave the locations. 

Mycroft frowned and glanced at his brother, who was frowning as well. Mycroft rose and went to his wardrobe, quickly selecting a suit.

"Casualties?" he asked.

"Yes. Uncertain how many at this time, but definite loss of life."

Mycroft sighed.

"You'd better get dressed as well, Gregory. Your team will be called in. We will continue your secondment, as I expect we shall be working closely, but you should be with your team."

Lestrade, having already gotten out of bed, nodded and grabbed one of his own suits.

"Damages?" Mycroft asked Anthea.

"In the millions."

"Targets?"

"Unknown at this time."

"Suspects?"

"Unknown at this time."

Mycroft nodded.

"Get dressed, my dear. I think we shall have a long day at the office. Anything else?"

"No, Sir. I'll be ready in five minutes. I've already called for two cars."

By that time, Mycroft had already donned half his suit, seemingly oblivious to not only the men, but Anthea seeing him get naked and then get dressed. He turned to his brother.

"Sherlock? I suspect I could use your assistance."

"John and I will check the sites. Keep in touch. Point me where you need me. Come, John."

A few minutes later, the five of them assembled in the hall. Mycroft, Sherlock and Anthea were quietly discussing which of the four sites Sherlock and John should go to first. Austin appeared in a dressing gown, and was quickly informed of the emergency. The cars arrived, and Sherlock and John took one to what they had determined should be the primary site, while the other three took the other car to Mycroft's office. They had nearly arrived when Lestrade's phone starting ringing.

"Boss?"

"Yeah, Sally?"

"Have you heard? Explosions in the city."

"I heard. I'm coming in. See you at the Yard."

After the car had dropped Mycroft and Anthea off, it went on to take Lestrade to the Yard, after a quick kiss and an admonition from Mycroft to Gregory to please be careful and keep in contact.

*****

Sherlock was frustrated. It had been almost two hours since the bombs went off, and he and John were in the car on their way to the third explosion site. The first two, though providing a wealth of clues and evidence, had not told him much about the perpetrator, or even the motive. Mycroft was having similar bad luck. When they arrived at the third site, they encountered Lestrade and his team. This was a more populated area, and casualties had been heaviest here from what they could tell, so Lestrade's team had been sent there first.

"Lestrade! Anything?" Sherlock demanded as he spotted the inspector.

"Seventeen dead, so far. Several injured."

John swallowed.

"Shit, Greg, I'm sorry."

Lestrade nodded and he and John commiserated for a moment, while Sherlock whirled off to inspect the scene. They both watched him. 

"How does he do it?" John asked. "I saw scenes like this before, but I still need a moment to acknowledge people died."

"They compartmentalize. They both do. The dead are dead, they can't help them. They're not medically trained, so can't help the injured. What they can do is find out who did it, so they can stop them from doing it again. Later, when that's done, they'll grieve for those lost in the city and the country they love."

John put his hand on Greg's arm and squeezed it in understanding and sympathy.

"I'll stick close to him, yeah? Don't want to worry Mycroft more than we have to."

Lestrade gave him a wan smile.

"Thanks, John."

And then they parted ways, John towards Sherlock, Lestrade to his team.

*****

It took three long and hellish days. Two more bombs went off, thankfully only injuring, not killing, and eight bombs more were found and prevented from exploding. The final death toll was twenty three, while the injured counted into the dozens. It turned out to be a new domestic terrorism group with an obscure agenda. Mycroft and Sherlock worked tirelessly, not eating or sleeping. John never left Sherlock's side, and when John collapsed in exhaustion, Sherlock stayed with him and retreated to his mind palace to piece together clues or consult with his brother. Mycroft, safe in his secure and reinforced office, watched over Anthea as she fell asleep on his couch, and kept an eye on the security feeds he had on Gregory to watch his lover as he took catnaps in his chair in his office at the Yard.

When the evidence they needed was retrieved, Lestrade and his team took down the actual bombers, while Mycroft's people rounded up the masterminds. Lestrade, haggard and grey from exhaustion, was forced to give a press conference before he was allowed to return home for a few days of leave. He and NSY were lauded in the papers and on the internet for preventing the further bombings and bringing the bombers to justice. There was no allusion to the masterminds now in Mycroft's claws, and Sherlock got barely a mention, which he didn't care about in the least.

They finally met up again at the house, tired beyond belief but grateful it was over. Sherlock collapsed onto one of the couches in the sitting room, pulling John with him, and maneuvered his doctor into a position comfortable for both of them, stretched out on the piece of furniture. Mycroft was more dignified about it, but within moments had his Gregory lying with him on another sofa, pressed together closely. Anthea pulled two of the armchairs together and curled up, safely held in their embrace.

Despite their exhaustion, none of them could quite find their way to sleep yet. The household, of course, rallied around them. Austin provided drinks, Mrs Weaver and Amanda made small, light bites of food, and when they'd drunk and eaten at least a little, William came down with more comfortable clothes. They undressed and redressed without regard for each others' presence, had a bit more food and drink, then settled back down. Eventually, Lestrade whispered sadly to Mycroft, but they all heard it.

"Twenty three dead, My. Twenty three. And so many injured."

Mycroft held his lover, carding through his hair, and whispered back.

"I know, dearest, I know."

They finally fell asleep.

*****

Though certainly comfortable, a sofa is not the most ideal place to sleep, especially not when sharing it. And so, it was only a few hours later that they all gradually woke up again. It had just gone seven in the evening, and the setting sun was casting a rosy golden hue over the sleepy company. When Austin noticed them stirring, he informed the kitchen, and just over half an hour later the entire household assembled there for dinner, the gentlemen of the house foregoing the dining room to spend time with the others. 

Mycroft, Anthea and Lestrade went over the work messages they'd received while sleeping, and John and Sherlock scoured the news sites to check what was being reported. After dinner, Anthea took her leave.

"I'm going to spend the night at Mum's, Sir. I'd like to be with her tonight."

"Of course, my dear, you must. Do give her my love. And be back here tomorrow at ten. We've been requested for a debriefing tomorrow at eleven, and should all leave from here no later than ten thirty."

"Yes, Sir. Have a good night."

"You too, dear."

Lestrade sighed as she left. 

"So the two of you are going to be in meetings tomorrow? I've been requested to deliver a written report, but other than that, I'm still seconded to you, so they're not expecting me in. I was hoping we'd get to spend some more time together before we had to get back to work."

"Ah, no, Gregory, you misunderstand. This debriefing includes you as well. And Sherlock and John."

That caused a few raised eyebrows. Whenever their paths crossed professionally, Lestrade had always reported to Mycroft, who would then take that to his debriefing with his peers. Sherlock usually did the same, although after certain incidents - Moriarty, Magnussen, Sherrinford - he'd been forced to appear before Mycroft's peers personally. John, of course, had never reported or been debriefed about anything, as he had always been considered to have been swept along in Sherlock's wake, even if he had been right in the middle of things.

"I have no intention of sitting in one of your bunkers all day with your…"

"Sherlock!"

The consulting detective huffed at his brother's interruption, but then took a good look at him. His petulance had left his voice completely when he answered.

"I see. I'll make sure we're dressed more appropriately than last time."

"Thank you, my sweet, that would be most kind of you."

*****

They didn't last long after dinner. The nap, food and drink had helped revive them a little, but they were all still bone tired. After an hour or two of mindless television, they decided to head to bed for an early night. As they reached their rooms, Mycroft turned to his brother.

"Sherlock?"

The detective nodded.

"I'll be with you in a few minutes, My."

Then he grabbed John's hand and pulled the doctor into the blue room, closing the door behind them.

"John…"

Seeing Sherlock's hesitation, John leaned up to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

"Whatever you need, Sherlock."

"Actually, this time it is my brother's needs. He has had to watch for three days as those he loves were out in danger. He would like to have me close to reassure himself I am safe."

John gave a small smile.

"I know how he feels. Go, then."

"You are a part of this now, John. I would feel more comforted to have you close, as will Mycroft."

Thinking about it for a moment, John nodded.

"And Greg?"

"Lestrade will want whatever makes us most comfortable."

"That's kinda sad, you know. Does he ever get what he himself wants? Or does he always bend to accommodate you two?"

Sherlock looked at him strangely for a few moments, then lifted his chin.

"That is perhaps a topic for another time. Will you join us?"

"Of course I will. Of course."

They left the blue room and entered Mycroft and Greg's. The two men were already in bed, close together on one side of the mattress, clearly expecting and anticipating their company. As Sherlock slid in next to his brother and John followed, Lestrade gave them a sleepy smile before closing his eyes and drifting off instantly. Mycroft was fighting sleep, and kept his eyes open long enough to watch his brother and his doctor drop off as well, before he finally gave in and succumbed himself.

*****

John woke at eight the next morning, much later than his usual time, and smiled to find Sherlock still firmly asleep and in his arms. Mycroft and Sherlock had found each other's hands during the night, and their interlaced fingers were perched on the pillow between them. Lestrade was on his back, snoring away quietly, one hand draped over Mycroft's hip. Though he tried to be as silent and careful as possible, the other three woke when John got up. 

"Sorry," he whispered, "go back to sleep."

"What time is it?" Mycroft yawned.

"Eight."

"Time to rise, then. It wouldn't do to be late for our appointment. That wouldn't do at all."

And so it was that at nine, all four of them entered the morning room for breakfast. John and Lestrade had been a little bemused when their respective partners had taken the liberty to choose their outfits for the day, one of their new bespoke suits for each, which they thought was a bit much for a debriefing. But they'd learned to pick their battles, and this wasn't worth arguing over. Anthea was already in the morning room, also in a beautifully cut suit, ready to join them for breakfast.

"Good morning, Anthea. How is your dear mother?"

"Morning, Sir. She's very well, and was very happy to have me with her last night. The reassurance did her good."

"I know the feeling, my dear."

Breakfast was mostly silent, all of them still processing and getting back to normal. It was only when they were in the car, when John spoke again.

"About this debriefing? Anything in particular we should say, or shouldn't say?"

"Don't worry about it, John. Just follow our lead," Mycroft replied with a smile. 

He noticed Sherlock and Anthea had similar small smiles as well. He started to get an itchy feeling in his gut, which grew worse when they pulled up at their apparent destination. He'd been here before. And suddenly he remembered what Sherlock had said the previous evening. 

'I'll make sure we're dressed more appropriately than last time.'

Oh dear. 

After they got out of the car and were being ushered through several long corridors, John hissed at Sherlock.

"Last time you wore a sheet and no pants!"

"And you wore a very nice jumper, as I recall. Would you not say these suits are more appropriate?"

Sherlock grinned gleefully, and John couldn't help but shake his head and grin back a little, wondering which of Mycroft's peers they'd be meeting for this debriefing at Buckingham Palace this time.

Lestrade meanwhile was outwardly trying to project calm and confidence, but inside he was shaking a little. Buckingham Palace! He'd been here before, of course, both as a tourist and once in his official capacity, but now they were clearly in what was the private residence, and he'd certainly never been there before. In his years with Mycroft, Lestrade had been to several important places and had met several important people, but this was a bit much. They were shown into a small sitting room where Mycroft, Sherlock and Anthea smoothly took seats, John and Greg hesitating a little before sitting down next to their partners. Greg was grateful for Mycroft's steadying hand on his thigh, and even more thankful if a little surprised when Mycroft leaned over to him and pressed a small kiss to his cheek.

"You look wonderfully charming, Gregory. You'll be fine."

Lestrade wished he had his lover's confidence.

*****

'Not a peer, then,' John thought as a few minutes later they were collected and brought to another room.

"Mycroft!" the lady exclaimed quite happily but terribly dignified.

"Your Majesty," Mycroft replied equally warmly as he took her hand and made a small bow over it. "May I present my partner, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade?"

Trembling on the inside, Lestrade copied Mycroft's movements and bowed to his Queen.

"My brother, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock was utter grace and confidence as he greeted Her Majesty.

"His partner, Dr John Watson."

John stiffened his jellied spine with military poise and bowed to the Queen.

"And of course, Your Majesty has met Miss Anthea."

Anthea curtsied with a smile.

"How lovely," Queen Elizabeth murmured. "Please, sit."

*****

What followed was the most surreal half hour of John Watson's life. While Mycroft made small talk - Mycroft making small talk! - with the Queen - with the bloody Queen! - servants bustled about to provide tea and biscuits. They were each thanked for their 'efforts to protect and provide justice for Our citizens and country', and the Queen had obviously been well informed, because she asked John about his military experiences, Sherlock about his cases, Lestrade about his work at NSY and Anthea about her work with Mycroft and even about her mother. At some point, Her Majesty even inquired after Mycroft and Sherlock's parents, and was seemingly honestly saddened to hear the relation was a bit strained at the moment, even going so far as to ask whether it was because of their sister or their choice of partners. Mycroft replied as honestly as he could that it was a combination of both.

Mycroft did most of the talking, the others gladly leaving that to him. Sherlock had seemed to lose interest after the first few minutes, as was usual with him; Anthea left the lead to her boss, clearly making mental notes for the future when she would be in his position; and Lestrade and John just didn't want to put their foot in it. When the meeting came to a close and they all very respectfully said their goodbyes, Queen Elizabeth held Mycroft back for a moment by not releasing his hand immediately. Her eyes flicked to Lestrade, then back to Mycroft.

"He seems a wonderful man, Mycroft. Know how lucky you are."

"He is, and I do, Your Majesty, I assure you."

"Good," she smiled, "I'll see you again soon for our next meeting."

And then she turned and left.

*****

Back in the car, Anthea immediately turned to her phone, her fingers seemingly itching after not having had it in her hand during the time at the Palace. John was giddily chuckling and joking quietly with Sherlock, who had lost his disinterested poise as soon as they were secluded in the car, same as the previous time. Mycroft was staring at Lestrade, holding his hand, as Gregory looked out the window. 

"Gregory?" Mycroft asked softly when they were almost home.

The other three ceased their reading and joking to look at the two lovers.

It took Mycroft squeezing Lestrade's fingers to get the man to turn and look at him, and when he did, his eyes were misty with tears threatening to fall and his face radiant with a smile that was part pure happiness and part disbelief. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"You're never getting rid of me now, you know."

"What?" Mycroft asked, genuinely startled.

"I know you love me. You've shown it, and you've said it. But, Mycroft… You just introduced me as your partner to the bloody Queen of England!"

"Well, you are. Aren't you?"

Mycroft was starting to get a little anxious, not understanding what was going on. Lestrade smiled at him again, wiping away a single tear that fell.

"But I know how it goes, what the order is for you. Sherlock; Queen and Country; then a whole lot of nothing and then me. I know that. And now you…" Lestrade was choked with emotion, but soldiered on. "Now you've told the Queen about me. About me! You have no idea how much that means to me, to have you acknowledge me like that to…"

"Don't be silly, Greg," Sherlock interjected, but his voice lacked any scorn or ridicule. "The Queen has known about you for close to ten years. My brother told Her Majesty about you approximately eight weeks after you made your relationship official."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock, then at Mycroft.

"Seven weeks and two days, actually, brother mine. It was the earliest opportunity after being certain of my feelings to have a chance to speak with Her Majesty."

"I did say 'approximately', brother dear."

"So you did, Sherlock. But Gregory…" Mycroft faltered when he saw an expression on his lover's face that he simply could not read. "Gregory, are you alright, my dearest? Do we need to divert to a hospital? John! John, please, something is wrong with Gregory!"

John smiled, for many reasons.

"Nothing wrong with him, Mycroft. He's just a bit overwhelmed."

Glowering at John for being no help at all, then at his brother for grinning, and even at Anthea for smiling softly and knowingly, Mycroft turned back to Lestrade and tried to make sense of it. He put his hand on Greg's cheek to maintain comforting contact.

"Gregory, please…"

"You told the Queen about me ten years ago?" Lestrade whispered.

"Well, yes, of course!" Mycroft replied, bewildered. "We have a very cordial relationship, and it seemed only prudent that once I had discovered that I actually stood a chance with you for a deeper connection, I inform Her Majesty of this new happiness in my life. Her Majesty and I have spent many pleasurable moments closing our business meetings by speaking of you and our love for each other and hhmmmph…"

Mycroft's talk was very effectively cut off by Lestrade's lips claiming his in a deep, passionate kiss. Despite his confusion, Mycroft knew one thing for certain, and that was that when Gregory was kissing him, he could do nothing but kiss him back.

A throat delicately clearing itself called them back to the present after a while.

Dazed and - for Mycroft at least - confused, they refocused to find Anthea wiping away tears, John grinning happily at them, and Sherlock huffing, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away to hide a big smile.

Utterly lost, Mycroft looked from one to the other to settle at last on his Gregory, who was beaming at him with a happiness and love Mycroft had never seen on his face before. Deciding to just accept it without understanding, he smiled tentatively back at his lover, and received another soft kiss.

"Don't worry, brother," Sherlock drawled, "I'm sure John can explain it to you later."

*****

Once home, they changed clothes and then settled on the patio in the sunshine, and Mycroft was still bewildered at Gregory's behavior. His lover smiled and beamed, and wouldn't let him go to even sit in his usual chair, instead holding him tightly to him on one of the loungers. It was a more intimate position than he usually allowed in company, even if that company consisted of Sherlock, Anthea, and now John Watson, but his discomfort was not at that, but at his not understanding what had made Gregory suddenly so clingy. They chatted over drinks and a cigarette, and after a while, Lestrade sighed happily, burrowed his face into Mycroft's neck and dozed off in the warmth of the sunlight and his lover.

When he was certain that Gregory was asleep, Mycroft turned to John and queried him quietly.

"What did I do?"

John gave him a gentle smile.

"There's not many people who know about your relationship. Greg's fine with that, because he understands the reasons for it and agrees with them. But still, to have you openly validate your relationship to the Queen of England, that means a lot. And then to find out that you told Her Majesty pretty much at the very beginning, and continued speaking to her about him, it's just told him how important he is to you, and has been from the start."

"But I tell him he's important to me all the time!"

"And he tells you you're beautiful all the time, but you never quite believe that, do you? Until he's making love to you and his actions prove to you how desirable he finds you."

Mycroft's eyes flared angrily when John spoke what Mycroft deemed to be inappropriately about his and Gregory's intimacy, but then he frowned. Blunt as it might have been, John's observation was correct. After a few moments, he nodded in understanding.

"Thank you, John."

John grinned.

"I didn't do anything. You brought this all on yourself."

He gestured one hand to where Greg was snuggling up to Mycroft, and then he, Sherlock and Anthea broke out in giggles. Mycroft looked down at his dozing lover, and then started giggling himself in happiness.

*****

A light luncheon was served in the kitchen some time later, and while Mycroft, Anthea and Sherlock had kept the truth of their meeting admirably vague the day before, it was no secret anymore as they all settled in the kitchen. They all knew Mycroft met regularly with Her Majesty, but for Greg and John and even Sherlock it had been a first, and the staff eagerly but respectfully quizzed them. Not much was revealed, none of them wanting to say things that could come back to haunt Mycroft later due to ill discretion, but what details they did give were gleefully lapped up. 

After lunch, Anthea returned to the office and the men went back to the patio to enjoy the fine summer weather. Sherlock bustled about the garden, then disappeared for a few minutes, to return with two croquet hammers in hand, smiling broadly.

"Remember these, brother mine?"

"Dear Lord!" Mycroft exclaimed. "Where did you find those?"

"In the potting shed. There is in fact an entire set, balls and hoops and everything. Fancy a game?"

For a moment, Mycroft looked aghast. Then a smile appeared on his face.

"Yes, yes, why not. Gregory, John?"

Lestrade just laughed and nodded, used to the Holmes boys and their penchant for games of all sorts, and almost always willing to play along. John sighed.

"What's next? Are you going to have us play cricket? Organize a village fete? Join a bell ringing contest? Going to a flower show? How much more British can you get?"

"Honestly, John," Mycroft admonished him with a smile, "you've just returned from tea with our most esteemed Monarch. Is your Britishness really in question?"

John stared at him for a second, then collapsed in giggles.

"I suppose I can't dispute you there, Mycroft. Alright, alright! Maybe we should throw some tea leaves in the hot tub, so we can be British through and through and bathe in our national beverage."

He giggled again, and Mycroft blinked at him, then answered with a completely straight face.

"I wonder which would blend best with the chlorine… a Darjeeling or a strong Assam?"

The three others stared at him for a few moments, then a giggle erupted, then a laugh, and then they were hanging onto each other to keep upright while laughter shook their bodies so hard their knees wouldn't hold them. Mycroft tried to hold out as long as possible, but before long he joined them in their mirth. 

When they finally calmed, Sherlock led them to the shed. As he and John gathered up the balls and hoops and two more hammers, Lestrade and Mycroft looked around. Lestrade whistled.

"I didn't know all this stuff was here? I think I've been in here maybe two or three times only, I don't remember. My, did you know?"

"I did not, Gregory. I am ashamed to say I don't think I have ever been in here. I have no idea…"

"Of course you do, My," Sherlock interrupted, then pointed to various items. "The badminton set was ours, as was the petanque. I recognize the bowls pins and balls. We never had a tennis pole though, that must have been brought by accident in one of your moves."

Mycroft frowned.

"Sherlock, my sweet?"

After a small pause, Sherlock breathed deeply, then answered quietly.

"When you left for university, I had no one to play with anymore. And then you started working, and pretty soon moved into your first home instead of the flat you'd been staying in. You sent to Mummy and Father for your things. I… I thought… if you had these, perhaps one day, we might play again." He sighed. "I guess they must have packed and moved them whenever you changed houses."

Sherlock refused to look at any of them, but Mycroft approached him carefully, and drew him into his arms. Sherlock let him.

"Oh, my darling brother. My sweet little baby brother," he whispered, and Sherlock hugged him back. It didn't take long though for Sherlock to realize what was happening, and he drew back. 

"Yes, well…" then he smiled sweetly and kissed his brother on the cheek, "let's see if you're still as bad at this game as you always were."

The consulting detective strode out of the shed with the hammers and hooks, the other three looking after him with fond emotion. Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Right. John, do you have the balls?"

Lestrade and John glanced at each other, then burst out laughing again.

"Oh, grow up!" Mycroft huffed, following his brother outside.

They quickly set up a course and started the game. More by luck than skill, Lestrade won the first round, to outraged cries from Sherlock, who insisted his calculations of the necessary trajectories should have kept him in the lead. Mycroft took a very dignified third place, only two strokes ahead of John, who hadn't played very seriously. Austin brought out drinks, and they altered the course. This time, John was set on winning, and really gave Sherlock a run for his money, losing to him by a single stroke, while Lestrade came in third and Mycroft conceded the game when he had to take an urgent call.

The afternoon continued leisurely playing the game, until Mycroft was interrupted by business again. Lestrade also bowed out, saying he should really get started on his report. That brought back the last few days to the forefront of their minds, and they cleared the game. Mycroft and Lestrade retreated to their separate home offices, while Sherlock and John went to the pool.

*****

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'd like you to have me."

John's body froze on the air bed. After taking laps for a while, the two had settled together again, floating around. John truly enjoyed the feeling of his best friend's body held close to his, and admitted now that he'd had many fantasies about what to do with said body, but the reality was daunting. 

"Sherlock, I…"

"You don't wish to."

John stayed quiet for a bit.

"Not… quite yet."

"But…"

"Sherlock. You can't honestly claim you don't know this is a first for me. I love you and I want you, but I'm not quite ready to just jump in and take you."

Sherlock frowned. John glared at him.

"Don't give me that. Sherlock… this is a big deal for me. I love holding you and kissing you, and I'm sure I'd love anything more we do, but I don't want to rush things and get carried away only to have you discover you don't like it any more than you did the last time you did it. What if I can't do it right, and you find I don't 'quiet your mind' after all? Will that be it for us? And is that what this is about? Do you just want to be quiet, or do you truly desire me? How can I know? And what if I can't?"

In his frustration and worry, John spilled his insecurities unthinkingly. Sherlock did not take it well, and before John could really grasp what was happening, his best friend was stalking out of the room in a huff. John scrunched his eyes shut and berated himself. He was still floating around almost two hours later, when Austin came to inform him that dinner was nearly ready.

*****

When John made it to the dining room, Mycroft and Greg were already in their seats, and they gave him questioning and commiserating looks as John took in the single empty place setting left. 

"He's gone then?"

"My brother left the premises approximately two hours ago. Two of my agents are following him. So far, he's only been walking around."

"I should probably…"

"Mate, you need to sit down and eat, and tell us what happened."

John stood in indecision for long moments, then finally sat in what was usually Sherlock's seat.

"That's your answer to everything? Talk about it, tell us what happened?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"Look what happens when we don't talk. Lots of insecurities and misunderstandings. If you don't want to, that's up to you, but if you want to know what's going on with Sherlock, you're sitting here with the two people who know him best in the world. Best chance you've got, John."

Despite himself, John finally started talking halfway through the main course. Though Greg and Mycroft tried to reassure him, he didn't quite feel comforted. And when Mycroft received a text after dinner, his mood sunk even lower.

'SH at mine. Will keep him overnight. ~A.'

*****

"So, dimwit," Anthea said as she poured them both another measure of good whiskey, and settled back into her extremely comfortable corner of the sofa in her equally comfortable sleep trousers and top, "what are you doing here demolishing my stash of excellent whiskey instead of snuggling up to your pretty little army doctor?"

Sherlock, having discarded coat, jacket, shoes and socks, leaned back into his own corner of the huge couch, and smirked.

"It's Mycroft's whiskey, you harridan, and he'll replace it before you miss it."

"Still. You're downing it so fast you can't even taste it, and if you simply want to get drunk and cry on my shoulder like a whiny little girl, I'd much rather you do it with the somewhat subpar bottle of vodka I was gifted by a particularly annoying Russian diplomat who thought I could be bought with something so trite."

"Maybe later, hag. If you want me to 'cry like a whiny little girl', it'll take more than what's left in this bottle to reach that stage."

"I'll get you there. Cry baby."

"Bitch."

She smiled at him. 

"A particularly uninspired insult, you're certainly slipping." Her face softened. "What happened, Sherlock? What's wrong?"

It took the remainder of the bottle and some gentle coaxing, but Sherlock spilled the story at last. He didn't cry, and he didn't lean on her shoulder, but he did wrap his arm around her as she helped him to the spare bedroom in her flat, where he fell into a fitful sleep.

'You owe me a new bottle of that fine whiskey. Will bring him for breakfast in the morning. ~A'

*****

It was a rather subdued company that met in the morning room for breakfast that day. Mycroft, though certain his little brother was safe in Anthea's hands, had fretted all through the night, and Lestrade had obviously been kept up by that. John hadn't slept a wink, going over everything again and again in his mind, blaming Sherlock and then himself in ever revolving circles. Anthea and Sherlock were both nursing hangovers.

"Right," Mycroft said at last, when he'd had enough of the oppressive silence, "Anthea, no work today. I'm confiscating your phone. You will take a sojourn in the pool and sauna, and then William will come tend to you. Gregory, I believe you have a report to finish. When you do, come find me in the library, please. Sherlock, John, with me." 

When they gave him a questioning look, Mycroft huffed.

"Now, gentlemen."

Sherlock and John got up, and followed Mycroft out onto the grounds. Sherlock instantly understood where his brother was taking them, but didn't say a word. They reached a small building after a few minutes, and Mycroft opened the door.

"Inside," he ordered, and Sherlock and John did as told. Mycroft followed.

It was a small shack, barely more than a bed and bath, but it had clearly been tended to over the years, as it was in excellent condition. 

"This is the old groundkeeper's hut," Mycroft said for John's benefit, as Sherlock already knew it. "You will both remain here today and talk, or… whatever. Neither of you will leave this place until it is time for dinner. If you do, I will… think of something horrid in retaliation."

He gave them a haughty look, only slightly spoiled by the concern they saw in his eyes, then turned and left, closing the door behind him. John dropped onto the bed, there really wasn't any other place to sit, and stared anywhere but at Sherlock, who stood at the window, watching his brother retreat.

"He hasn't locked us in, has he?"

Sherlock smiled softly.

"The door hasn't even a lock, John. Besides, do you really suppose I could not escape from a shack like this in mere minutes if I wanted to?"

Despite himself, John chuckled.

"I guess. So what are we going to do?"

Sherlock turned, regarded his friend, then moved to come sit next to him on the bed.

"We could leave. My brother won't actually retaliate. Or… we could talk."

When John turned to him, Sherlock's face looked slightly hopeful. John sighed and pulled himself further onto the bed, leaning back against the cushions.

"We've been doing more talking in the last few days than we have in years. It doesn't seem to get us anywhere."

"I disagree."

"You do?"

"Of course. Even if it wasn't my nature to disagree with almost anything anyone else says, in this case, as always, I am certainly correct."

John smiled at him fondly.

"Sure you are. So? Good night with Anthea?"

"She insulted my intelligence, my manners, even my parentage and fashion sense."

"Sounds nice?"

Sherlock smiled.

"It was, actually. John…" Sherlock shuffled around on the foot of the bed so he could look at his friend, "… I don't have many friends." His raised hand forestalled the obvious remark. "And of those few, Anthea is perhaps the most normal when it comes to things like this. Apart from Molly, maybe, but even she managed to fall in with a consulting criminal, and anyway, I would never be able to speak with her about this. Mrs Hudson was married to a drug kingpin, and then attracted a bigamist. Irene's tastes, though interesting, are not mine. Lestrade may seem appallingly normal, but then again, he's been deeply in love with my brother for over a decade, so we have to wonder about his sanity. And Mycroft… well, while his advice may be the most applicable, it is not something I wish to discuss in detail with my brother, nor he with me."

John nodded.

"Anthea, though, has managed several seemingly normal relationships with normal people, despite her work and hours. And she's not afraid to talk to me about things like this with brutal honesty."

Sherlock looked at John to gauge his reaction. John simply looked back with curiosity.

"So when I finally told her last night what was said between us, she scolded me. Not like a big brother or a parent would scold an ignorant child, but as happens in those ridiculous romantic films you think I don't know you like to watch on occasion. A friend, telling another friend a truth. She has given me to understand I put pressure on you that was unfair and uncalled for. Inappropriate. For that, I am sorry."

John blushed a little, but nodded again.

"I shall never have a 'normal' relationship, John, and I think you know that. I do understand now, though, that I should be more considerate of your… emotions… in this matter. My previous experiences, I offered and it was accepted, and I thought between you and I it would be similar. Anthea explained the difference, the… emotions, as I said. With the others, I cared not that I would probably never see them again, and if I did, it would not matter. But with you…"

Sherlock ground to a halt, and looked up at John from under his lashes. John cleared his throat.

"Okay. Okay, so you get that this is very different from that, then. That's good, because it is. Very different. Sherlock, if…"

"If you and I have intercourse and I don't like it, I cannot simply walk away."

John swallowed.

"Exactly. And nor can I."

"Would we be better off not trying then, John?"

A long silence followed.

"I didn't say that. I want to, I really do. There's been something between us from the very start, Sherlock, neither of us can deny that, and I wouldn't want to deny it. Not anymore. And these last few days, I've really enjoyed being so much closer to you. Kissing you and holding you, sleeping in the same bed with you, I really like all that. And I'm sure that I don't care that you're a man. I don't think I could, given my body's response whenever you're near. And I've thought about it, about you, that way, and it's excited me. Yet… it's also a first for me. But the physical part of it only worries me a little. I know what I like, and you can't be that different, and even if you are, we can find out together. But not if something happens between us, and you decide you don't like it and withdraw."

He looked earnestly at his friend.

"I know how you are. If things don't go your way, or aren't perfect or as you predicted, you give it up as a failed experiment. And I… I can't be an experiment to you, Sherlock, not with this."

Another long silence followed, then Sherlock looked up again.

"Hmmm. Anthea used the word experiment too. You both fail to realize two things. One is that an experiment is only valid if you can duplicate the results. There's no abandoning it after one try, one has to repeat several times before a proper conclusion can be drawn. The other is…" Sherlock looked away for a few moments, then stared deeply into John's eyes again, "… I may be a man of science, John, but you have defied my scientific nature from the day we met. I have come to believe that you are not science, you are not an experiment, you can't be defined by the scientific method. Instead of mind, you are… heart."

Taken aback by the deep emotion he both saw on Sherlock's face and heard in his voice, John just stared, reeling from the sincerity. After a long while, Sherlock cautiously crawled closer, positioning himself at John's waist, his head placed carefully on John's reclining chest and his arm wrapped around John's body. John's hand came up of its own accord, and started stroking gently through the chocolate curls now resting on his stomach.

They stayed like that for a long time.

*****

When Mycroft returned to the morning room after consigning his little brother and the doctor to the groundskeeper's hut, Anthea was surprised he held out his hand and actually demanded she deliver her phone to him. Knowing Mycroft in this mood, she did not fight him, and after what remained of breakfast, followed his orders and retreated to the pool. Breakfast had gone a long way to assuage her hangover, and she swam laps for a long time, enjoying the silence and exercise. Amanda came to bring her fresh and cold fruit juices a little later, and Anthea reclined in the hot tub with a cool glass in hand. When William arrived and invited her onto his table, she gave herself over to his pleasant and soothing hands for almost an hour before thanking him and relaxing a little more. When at last she was showered and dressed, she felt better than she had in a long time, and went to find her boss.

Mycroft was in his study and quietly waved her in while he was on a conference call on speaker phone as he was reading reports on his laptop. Before long, they were working smoothly together, Anthea having received her phone back and having quickly gone through the missed e-mails and messages of the past few hours. The call didn't last long after her arrival, and they settled in to work for a while. When Austin interrupted with a discreet knock and a soft reminder lunch would be in fifteen minutes, Mycroft closed his laptop and stretched.

"How was my brother last night, my dear?"

Anthea knew he wasn't asking for details. They both understood that if Sherlock ever got the feeling Anthea reported back to Mycroft on their conversations, he would never speak to her on a personal level again.

"Better than I expected, actually, once I'd heard what happened. We drank and talked."

"I have already asked Austin to have a few new bottles of… what did you call it? Ah yes, 'that fine whiskey'… to be delivered to your flat."

"Thank you, Sir. It wasn't bad, really, he just didn't understand what he'd done wrong."

Mycroft winced.

"Something my brother and I are both frequently guilty of. And then we rely on you and poor Gregory and John to steer us in the right direction, and will probably inadvertently insult you for it."

He sighed, and she smiled.

"Did I ever tell you, Sir, about when I started working for you?"

Surprised at the non sequitur, Mycroft just blinked.

"My very first day, some of the other assistants asked me to join them out for lunch. It was partly to welcome me, I think, but mostly they wanted to tell me how sorry they were that I had been assigned to work for you."

Mycroft blushed and looked a little uncomfortable.

"It was clear very soon that they had no idea of your specific duties, or mine. We did spend those first few weeks actually at the Department of Transport, Sir, if you recall." She tittered lightly at his raised eyebrow.

"They said you were cold and unfeeling, demanding and petulant, and must be a nightmare to work for. I simply told them I had only had half a day with you, and could not possibly comment. Then they started gossiping about their bosses, and I quickly realized I had been right."

"Right about what?"

"I'd checked you out, Sir, same as you did me, only not to the same level, of course. I'd heard those rumors, and was just thankful you appeared to be a professional who just wanted me to work and would not ask me to pick up your dry cleaning or lie to your wife about you spending time with your mistress."

Mycroft's blush deepened, and he countered softly.

"But you do pick up my dry cleaning."

"No, Sir. I tell Austin, and he arranges for it to be picked up. But that was not what I was getting to." She sighed. "Every few days, they'd ask me to lunch, and I'd join them. I still do. It's a good way to get information. And of course they'd ask me about you. Obviously, I never said anything." She shrugged.

"By the second week, I'd met your brother, and a few months later, there was Greg. And I knew you weren't cold and unfeeling then."

"But demanding and petulant?"

"Sometimes," she grinned at him, and he grinned back self-consciously.

"I worried a little that I would have to become involved in your personal life after all, Sir. But you and the Inspector sorted yourselves out, and you took care of your brother by yourself. So I wasn't too worried."

Mycroft became a little uncomfortable at where he thought this was going.

"As the years went by, there were times where I did have to involve myself. And of course, Dr Watson joined the gang and brought new worries. But by then… Mycroft," she said, looking at him earnestly, and Mycroft knew how serious she was by the use of his name, something she seldom did, "we were friends."

The gratitude in his look nearly killed her.

"And as your friend, it is my honor to listen and try to help you if you're having trouble in your relationship. To speak to your significant other and your little brother and his doctor friend, because they mean the world to you, and you mean the world to me. As they are your family, they have become mine, and there is nothing you can ask of me for their sakes or your own, that I would not gladly do."

Mycroft rose and grasped her hand, pulling her out of her seat and into his arms in a warm embrace.

"You are such a special young lady, my dear," he whispered quietly into her ear as he held her. "So special. I'm as the proudest of fathers looking at you each and every day. You mean the world to me too, my dear, and one day, I will gift it to you."

She chuckled through the small tears that threatened to fall, then pulled back and kissed his cheek.

"But not too soon, eh? Keep the world safe for a little longer."

"I shall endeavor to do everything in my power to ensure that when it becomes yours, it will be a haven of grace."

They both grinned.

"Well, we can dream," she said, pulling herself together. "In the meantime, there's lunch, and you've a Detective Inspector to ravish, and I've got a pair of idiots to check up on in the shack in the garden."

*****

Lestrade had been sweating over his paperwork for a few hours now, definitely not his favorite part of the job. Seriously, who liked paperwork? It's not that he didn't know what to write. He always told the truth, to the best of his abilities, and his reports were no different. But when those reports were related to Mycroft, he always tried a little harder. He didn't just 'grab the bloke as he tried to run away', he 'detained the suspect while said suspect was attempting to evade him'. It was frustrating and he knew it was ultimately useless - because Mycroft knew exactly who and what he was - but he always made the effort. He'd learned more words of his own language from Mycroft and Sherlock and his bloody thesaurus while writing reports than he had in all his years of English in school.

He laughed a little at himself. Of course he'd never ever written 'grab the bloke' in a report, he wasn't stupid. He was fairly well educated and fairly intelligent, a prerequisite of rising to the rank of Detective Inspector, but whenever he was writing reports that might be reviewed by Mycroft, he did try to put a little extra linguistic panache into it. His lover and his consultant threw those expensive words around like they'd spoken them since they were three - and Greg knew that was, in fact, true - and he'd picked up on plenty of them. He'd never speak like them, but he could use them in writing. It was still frustrating though.

So it was with a little smile of relief that he looked up at the knock to the door of his study to find Austin announcing lunch would be ready shortly. He saved his almost finished report and stretched, feeling his spine crack and pop after a few hours of sitting at his desk, and made his way to the kitchen.

He was the first to arrive and happily chatted to Mrs Weaver and Amanda for a few minutes, gladly accepting the refreshingly cold beer he was offered as he sat down. Austin and the rest of the staff arrived, and only a little later, Mycroft and Anthea came in. Lestrade saw at once that something had passed between the two of them, but refrained from commenting. As Mrs Weaver served, she queried Mycroft.

"Mr Sherlock and Dr Watson, Sir?"

"Out in the groundskeeper's cottage, Mrs Weaver."

"I'll serve them their lunch after we've finished Mrs Weaver, if you don't mind," Anthea added with a smile.

"Of course, dear. Thank you."

Lunch was relatively quiet and quick. As Mycroft rose to return to his study, he brushed Lestrade's back. 

"How is your report coming, dearest?"

"Fine, My," Greg smiled, "almost done."

"Good. Come see me after?"

"In the library, yes. I haven't forgotten. Will you be done too by then?"

"Most certainly. I look forward to it."

And the soft kiss Mycroft placed on his lips before he strode off had Greg vibrating with excitement. 

*****

Anthea kicked the door to the shack with her expensive boots, since she had her hands full with a tray of steaming lunch bowls and drinks.

"Sod off!" Sherlock yelled.

Refusing to stoop to screaming back, she kicked again. A moment later, a ruffled Dr Watson opened the door. His eyes lighting up at the food and beverages, he ushered her in.

"Thanks, Anthea!"

"I came to see how you and the stroppy toddler were doing." She put down the tray and let her eyes flicker over both over them. "Things are progressing, I see?"

John blushed and dove for the tray to pour himself a drink. Sherlock glared at her.

"Get lost, harpy."

"Oh, poor, dear Sherlock," she cooed at him, "don't know what to do with your little doctor now you've got him? I could give you some tips!"

John would have been offended, had Sherlock not rolled off the bed with a smile and strode over to her to place a sweet kiss on her cheek.

"Not necessary. But thank you, Anthea."

Her smile lost its teasing edge and became genuine. She didn't say anything else, just patted his cheek and left.

"What was that?" John asked.

"They're just checking in. Don't worry about it."

Shaking his head, John took a bowl of steaming hot lunch and settled back on the bed, eating with relish. Sherlock joined him after only a few moments.

*****

Anthea returned to Mycroft's office, not surprised that he wasn't there. She smiled, and set back to work.

*****

Mycroft stood in front of his dressing room mirror and exchanged the burgundy silk robe for the blue one. Gregory liked the blue better. Trying not to feel too self-conscious, he strode down the stairs from his bedroom to the library in his robe, some loose sleep trousers, and nothing else. It was odd, he conceded. He had no problem with nudity, though he was not especially fond of it. With those he trusted, he had no qualms dressing or undressing in front of them. Sherlock of course, Gregory, Anthea, William, Austin, hell, most of his staff, and now John Watson too, had seen him naked. Several times. Whilst dressing, in the pool or for a massage, it did not matter to him much. But when it was sexual, or had the potential to be sexual, he became uncertain, shy.

The conversation he had overheard between Gregory and John that day in the garden, had really stuck with Mycroft, particularly the part where Greg said he'd never have sex on the kitchen table again. Gregory had said it with the air of a man who had had that and enjoyed it, even though Mycroft's first reaction was 'why would anyone want to?'. Thinking back, he realized the vast majority of their sexual encounters had been in bed, safely tucked away behind a closed bedroom door. Gregory had taken him a few times over his desk in the home office, and even twice at his work office, and Mycroft had felt deliciously daring and dirty doing that. But otherwise, they had been decidedly tame. Vanilla, he thought the proper term was. 

And he wanted Gregory to have whatever he desired. The thought alone was making him burn.

The little fantasy they'd played out in his study, him the nobleman and Lestrade the humble groundskeeper, a fantasy Gregory had let slip in a moment of weakness in the shower, had been exhilarating, so exciting. Mycroft wanted more of that. Though a little saddened Gregory apparently hadn't felt safe enough to share something like that with him before, Mycroft was glad it had come up now, and had relished in playing it out. It wasn't all about fantasy though. Mycroft really had none himself. All he wanted was Gregory, and to see Gregory happy. But the comment about the kitchen table had set him thinking. 

He'd had a few dreams over the years, and perhaps those counted as fantasies? He'd dreamed of them in the car, Mycroft ordering the driver to take the long way home, and then him teasing Gregory with his hands and lips for as long as the ride lasted. The shower he'd quickly dismissed, same as the kitchen table, for he feared the shower would lend itself too easily to slipping and falling when his knees went weak with pleasure, as they already did when he got to bathe and kiss Gregory in there. But the library… the library he could do. He felt comfortable there, and with a quick word no one would bother them in there, and he'd dreamed of sinking back into one of the plush arm chairs in his robe, and then have Gregory unwrap him and drive him mad as a heroine in a gothic novel. Mad with pleasure, of course, not with malicious intent.

The thought alone made his blood rush south, and a low level arousal kept him half hard until he heard a quiet knock on the door.

"Come in!"

"My?" Gregory peered around the partially opened door. "I'm done with my report. Are you done wor…"

Lestrade's words faltered when he fastened his eyes on the vision in the blue silk dressing gown, reclining in one of the arm chairs. Seeing the desire flash in Gregory's eyes, Mycroft was glad he'd shed his sleep trousers too once in the library, and was now leaning comfortably back only in the robe, his beginning arousal clear under the silky thin fabric.

"Come, Gregory."

"Oh, I will," Greg breathed, closing and locking the door behind him.

Determined to overcome his shyness in these matters, Mycroft fluttered his lashes at Lestrade, hoping it was in a flirting way, not a stupid way.

"See something you like?"

Mycroft had hoped to make Gregory laugh, but instead got a very husky growl.

"Oh yeah."

Within seconds, Lestrade was across the room and kneeling on the soft, plush carpet and rug at Mycroft's feet. He let his gaze roam over the expanse of silky blue, then linger on the teasingly exposed pale, freckled skin. He leaned up and kissed Mycroft deeply, then settled back to gaze again. Then, suddenly, his admiring look turned to a frown, and he stared straight into Mycroft's eyes as he spoke.

"Is this… is this like Fantasy Weekend? Am I the gardener again?"

Immediately understanding, Mycroft shook his head and cupped Lestrade's cheek with one hand, giving him a quick kiss.

"No! No, my dearest. I… I have thought of this many times. I don't want you to be the groundskeeper and me the nobleman, although that was fun," he wiggled his eyebrows, and Lestrade couldn't help but smile back, "but I want to be you and me now, and here. Unless you don't want to?" he added uncertainly.

Lestrade growled possessively, and kissed Mycroft again, hands placed on Mycroft's hips firmly to keep him in his seat.

"Stay. Right. There."

Leaning back, Mycroft's breathing grew ragged as Greg stared into his eyes while his hands deftly undid the half knot of his dressing gown's tie, then flipped it open, the sides of it fluttering in the air before draping themselves over Mycroft's arms on the arm rests, leaving Mycroft completely exposed, and terribly hard.

"Lovely," Lestrade breathed as he finally looked down from Mycroft's eyes to take in all of the man, and then he leaned down and went to enjoy himself.

Mycroft moaned and squirmed as Gregory's mouth drove him to absolute distraction. Once upon a time, he would have felt utterly undignified at such loss of control, but Lestrade had assured him he loved to hear his response to Greg's touch, and proved it by becoming even more arduous every time Mycroft let one of his moans slip from his throat. Gregory teased him with his mouth, licking and sucking as if he were a delicious treat, and ran his hands and fingers up and down the insides of Mycroft's pale, freckled thighs. He sucked and bit little love bites into the pristine skin, licking over them to soothe, then returned to Mycroft's arousal again. When Mycroft heard the sounds of a belt buckle and a zip, he realized Gregory was enjoying this so much, he'd had to free himself from his jeans to avoid discomfort.

"Have you got lube?" Greg asked, looking up at Mycroft with blown pupils and swollen lips, a beautiful picture.

Nodding, Mycroft reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and extracted the small bottle he'd brought down from the bedroom. But when he tried to hand it to Lestrade, the man shook his head and pushed his hand back.

"No. Me. For me."

Surprised but filled with lust, Mycroft grasped Gregory's silver hair with his free hand, and pulled his head up to kiss him filthily, tasting himself on his lover's lips.

"Oh, God," Greg moaned, "please, My!"

After a quick adjustment of his mindset, Mycroft got up and watched as Gregory shuffled forward, draping himself over Mycroft's vacated seat, closing his eyes and practically writhing against the chair, waiting for Mycroft. 

This was not what Mycroft had imagined. It was even better. In accordance with both their preferences, Mycroft was usually the one being taken, but whenever Gregory was in the mood to give himself over to Mycroft, it was always an exquisite pleasure for both of them. Mycroft, the rare times they did this, became more like his work persona, completely in charge and very bossy. Gregory, when giving up control to Mycroft, loved to be made to beg. Mycroft knelt down behind Greg, and firmly grasped his hips.

"Hold still! No rutting against the furniture! You are not an animal, Gregory."

Lestrade moaned, but stilled his hips.

"I can be if you want me to. I'll be whatever you want me to be, if only you take me, and do it now!"

"Bestiality is not a kink of mine, Gregory. My lover is a man, a dignified man, not a dog writhing in heat."

Greg nearly whined, but that would only go to prove he was in fact a dog, so he bit it back.

"I'm bending over with my cock out of my jeans, begging for you to have me. I don't feel very dignified right now."

Mycroft leant over him, one hand carding through Greg's hair, the other disappearing below and stroking Greg's impressively hard dick.

"And such a nice cock it is, my love. And there is nothing undignified about a little begging, not when it serves its purpose."

"Please, Mycroft, please!"

"See?" Mycroft smirked, pressing a kiss to the side of Lestrade's head. "Utterly dignified."

Then he knelt up again and unceremoniously tore the open jeans and the boxers underneath halfway down Greg's thighs, exposing his exquisite posterior.

"Lovely, indeed," he murmured, and then set to work.

*****

Over half an hour later, Lestrade was a drooling puddle curled up on the library floor, his jeans and pants still halfway down his thighs, his shirt torn open, and his thoroughly used bum still quivering from all the attention it had just received. Mycroft, having donned his sleep trousers and tied his robe, sat next to him and carded through his hair.

"Gregory?"

"Hmdph?"

"Dearest?"

"Mgnhm."

"Are you quite alright, my love?"

Lestrade squinted one eye open and looked up at his lover.

"Hmphs."

Mycroft chuckled, then retrieved some tissues and attempted to clean up the mess they'd made. He tended to Gregory first, carefully wiping him clean, then turned his attention to the chair Lestrade had eventually stained with a strangled shout after Mycroft had taken him completely apart with his fingers, his mouth, and finally his cock. Mycroft winced. 

"I'll never get this out. The chair will have to be professionally cleaned, and everyone shall know what happened to it."

Staring at his irked lover, Gregory rolled over onto his back and started laughing.

"What?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

Catching his breath and reaching out to grasp Mycroft's hand, Lestrade shook his head.

"No way, My. You can't get that chair cleaned."

"Why ever not?"

"Because I want to be able to come in here whenever I want, look at the stain, and feel like this all over again."

Mycroft blushed.

"You… you liked it, then?"

Lestrade laughed again.

"I think you broke my brain. You were magnificent. Come here."

Mycroft only protested a little as Lestrade pulled him down to cuddle up next to him.

"Gregory, we are on the floor. We have furniture, so no need to lie on the ground like animals."

"You made me howl like an animal. Hell, you were an animal."

"Yes, well… perhaps I was a little rough?"

"I loved it! It was absolutely perfect. You're perfect."

Unable to speak through the emotion Gregory evoked in him, Mycroft simply let himself be held.

*****

The scene in the groundskeeper's cottage meanwhile was quite different. After their talk and the subsequent snuggling, during which they spoke only infrequently, John and Sherlock had both been distracted by Anthea's visit and the lunch she brought. Afterwards, they both settled onto the bed again, and eventually dozed off.

John woke to warmth and pleasure, and it took his sleepy mind a few moments to realize exactly why that was. Aghast, he rolled off the bed, placing himself against the wall, not even noticing his cock was still out and hard. All his mind could provide was the slurp and pop of his dick being torn from Sherlock's luscious lips.

"What the hell! Sherlock!"

The consulting detective shrugged, daintily dabbing at his lips to wipe away any excess drool.

"What? You were obviously enjoying it."

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is?"

"I was asleep!"

"And aroused. It seemed a reasonable conclusion you would enjoy me tending to it."

"I would… of course, I would! What man doesn't like having his dick sucked! But I was asleep!"

"So?"

"Sherlock…" John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I didn't give you permission."

"Oh. John, I'm pretty certain I don't like the whole permission thing."

"No kidding."

"I mean in the sex sense, in this case. It sounds a bit like the things Irene would like. Permission to come, and such. That's really not my thing. If it is yours, I'm sure I can get you an appointment with Irene or one of her associates."

"No! No, Sherlock… I mean… we were talking about having sex, and I told you I wasn't ready for it yet, and then you simply… you…"

Sherlock got up off the bed and stalked over to where John was leaning against the wall, his cock still out and hard.

"And I showed you that you were in fact ready for it. And liking it. As did I. So John…" Sherlock knelt down in front of his doctor and looked up at him, those sinful lips no more than an inch away from where John really wanted them, "… give me 'permission' now."

Utterly lost, John just nodded.

"Yeah.. yeah, alright. Okay, Sherlock, show me."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Are you certain, John? I wouldn't want to have to go through this conversation again."

John swallowed.

"Yeah. Yeah, you have my permission."

"Good," Sherlock purred, and went back to his treat.

John didn't last long. All the tension and anticipation of the last days, being so close to Sherlock, and now seeing the man himself on his knees before him, wrapping those lips around him and fluttering his tongue against him, John lost it far too soon. He slid down the wall and landed on his arse, Sherlock, still kneeling, looking smugly down at him. 

"I was correct."

"About what?" John asked despondently.

"With you, I liked it."

Sherlock rose and went back to the bed, falling down onto it on his back, humming softly and licking his lips. John just shook his head and watched him, still too overwhelmed to do anything else.

*****

While John was staring at his friend - boyfriend? lover? - who was clearly very pleased with himself and very visibly aroused, but seemingly not of a mind to do anything about that or demanding John do anything, Mycroft and Greg managed to sneak upstairs to their bedroom without being seen. When they caught sight of themselves in the dressing room mirror, Lestrade started to laugh gleefully, and Mycroft couldn't help but chuckle too. Greg looked thoroughly fucked, Mycroft's fingerprints and marks all over him, especially with his torn shirt hanging open like that. Mycroft was flushed, disheveled, and looked distinctly smug.

"A shower, Gregory?"

"That seems like a good idea, yeah. Can't go down to see anyone like this, can we?"

"I prefer not to, indeed. Come, bathroom it is."

They took their time. The shower in their bathroom was one of those luxuries Lestrade had thought was a myth, but that had been before he'd moved in with Mycroft. It was huge, had warmed tiles not just on the floor but the wall too, and several shower heads, including one of those big rainfall things in the middle. And it never ran out of hot water. Greg could live in that shower. But most of all, he loved it when he shared it with Mycroft.

In his usual way, Mycroft tended to his lover. As always, he made sure Gregory was not only clean, but healthy and comfortable. He winced a little when he found some bruises on Gregory's hips, perhaps he'd been a little too rough. It worried him, and he moved around so he could carefully inspect Greg's rear. After all, Gregory was not as used as Mycroft was to being taken this way, and he needed to make sure he had not harmed his precious lover. While he was gently examining him, Lestrade groaned.

"Mycroft, I'm perfectly fine. And if you keep that up, we're never getting out of here."

Looking up to see Gregory looking back at him over his shoulder, Mycroft noted the dilated pupils and the beginnings of arousal again. He quickly relented.

"Alright, Gregory. I'm sorry…"

He was cut off by Greg's growl, and quickly caught in Lestrade's arms as the man spun around.

"Never be sorry for making love to me, or for making sure I'm alright. You understand?"

Mycroft blinked and swallowed.

"Yes, Greg."

Lestrade smiled and kissed him softly, reassuringly. It was extremely rare Mycroft didn't manage to get through his full name, even in the throws of passion or fury, so for Mycroft to call him Greg, it was always a treat. When Lestrade pulled back, his smile was wide and his eyes bright.

"I love you, Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft hesitated. Not because he didn't return the sentiment, he most assuredly did. But with all they had spoken about and revealed over the last week or so, he felt uncertain his reciprocation of the phrase would be an appropriate response now. Instead, he pulled Gregory in closer, held the man tightly to him, and finally whispered in his ear.

"You are my heart, Gregory. My heart and my soul."

For a moment, he wasn't sure he had been heard, but then those strong arms squeezed him tighter, and Lestrade's face buried itself into his neck, and he wasn't released for several very long, very pleasurable minutes.

He had been heard, and understood.

*****

Unlike breakfast that morning, it was a very relaxed group that met in the hallway for dinner. Mycroft and Lestrade had made it down in the afternoon after their long shower, and Mycroft had read Gregory's report before Lestrade sent it in. Sherlock and John had been 'released' from the shack late in the afternoon, and while John was still a little unsure about exactly what had happened between them in the hut, he felt more confident with Sherlock than ever. Anthea, who probably should have returned to the office after lunch, had decided that she simply could not leave before seeing with her own eyes how the Holmes boys were doing, and besides, Mycroft's home office provided everything she needed to keep on top of things while her boss was otherwise occupied. When Mycroft had suggested an evening out at a favorite Indian restaurant, they'd all eagerly accepted. 

Following Greg's suggestion, John had showered and dressed in jeans and a shirt, and was relieved to find Greg similarly dressed, and even Anthea in jeans tucked into knee high boots, and a decidedly frivolous top, compared to anything else he'd ever seen her dress in. Mycroft and Sherlock were still in bespoke trousers and shirts, but that was all, both leaving jackets and anything more at home. 

Once again, the restaurant was a revelation to John. It was quite small and very non-distinct, and though it was packed, the five of them were ushered to a comfortable table immediately upon arrival. The man who had seated them, who had been all smiles and happy chatter, quickly went to the kitchen door and called out in a language John didn't know, and moments later, three women and two men in a mixture of traditional dress and chef's whites came bustling out. It wasn't too hard for John to spot the generations; one grandmother, two daughters and two sons (he wasn't quite sure who were the in-laws in that mix) and the grandchildren, he realized as the host and two waitresses stayed close and lingered.

All of them, each and every one, were greeted with hugs from the two Holmes brothers, and then Greg and Anthea. As Sherlock extended his hand to John and gave the family his name, he too found himself hugged and kissed. As Greg, Anthea and John settled into their seats, both Sherlock and Mycroft stayed standing and spoke to the grandmother in her own language, her eyes twinkling as they stumbled over some words. The others went back to their duties in the restaurant and kitchen after a few moments, but the grandmother stayed and talked for minutes. When she finally left to return to the kitchen as well, she patted Sherlock and Mycroft on the cheek as if admonishing grandsons she hadn't seen in far too long.

"Is there any restaurant in the UK where you don't know everyone, Mycroft?" John asked when the brothers had settled into their seats.

"Actually, this is Sherlock's find," Mycroft replied. "I merely provided some… paperwork."

"Mama Yana - not her real name, obviously, but she enjoys when we call her that - had some trouble with racketeering a few years ago when she and her husband had run this place for years. New unsavory elements in the neighborhood. I helped the family out." Sherlock dismissed with a hand wave. "And Mycroft saw to it Mama Yana and her family were protected from a legal angle."

"Yeah, and all seven grandchildren got scholarships to university. Miraculously. Don't know how that happened," Lestrade added with a grin.

Mycroft blushed.

"Well, the food is exceedingly good. But we wouldn't want such promising minds to spend their days waiting tables if they could further their education in their chosen fields, now would we?"

"Of course not," Anthea smiled.

"Not that there is anything wrong with that," Mycroft hastened to add. "A fine waiter or waitress is a rare thing, and a boon to any establishment. Sanja's heart is in the restaurant," he said, gesturing to the man who'd seen them to the table, "but now he also has a degree in business studies. His sisters and cousins take their turns helping out on busy nights. I wonder who the next head chef will be, though."

Sherlock actually chuckled.

"Please, brother, do not play coy. Sanja is mere weeks away from proposing to Aidia, and she already has Mama Yana's blessing as both a cook and family."

"Well, perhaps. However it is quite unseemly to speculate on such things, brother mine."

Sherlock was stopped from a sharp retort by the two girls serving coming to their table with drinks and setting up several hotplates, and after that, food kept arriving at regular intervals. Sometimes, it was the girls serving, sometimes someone from the kitchen, but mostly, it was Mama Yana coming to place a fresh dish in front of them. She spoke to Mycroft and Sherlock, and they translated for the others. John heard the name Aidia several times, and figured Sherlock was right.

The variety of dishes was astounding to John, and he relished each and every single one. Though having been an avid fan of Indian food all his life, and having been quite adventurous in his ordering of it, he was served dishes that night he'd never seen or heard of. Each bite was as delicious as the next, and when he finally stopped eating some three hours later, he was completely stuffed to the gills. When they were getting ready to leave, the family came out once again and spoke happily with the two brothers, Mama Yana kissing all of their cheeks like a proud grandmother. As Sanja was helping Anthea into her light summer coat, Mycroft asked him something, and the young man blanched, stuttering and shaking his head.

"What did he say?" John whispered to Sherlock.

"Mycroft asked for the bill. Sanja replied his grandmother would kill him if he presented one."

John shook his head and smiled, keeping a surreptitious eye on Mycroft, which was why he saw Mycroft carefully extract a large stack of bank notes and leaving them half hidden under his plate before leaving. Once in the car, Mycroft looked at John and sighed.

"I shall never understand it, John. Most people do not have money, and shall do almost anything to acquire it. Then there are those who do have money. If they acquired it themselves, they shall do anything to keep it and multiply it. If it came to them though their ancestors, they do their utmost to pretend money doesn't matter. But it does. The restaurant we just visited does very well, and deservedly so. They all work hard for it, and their dedication shows. Why should I not be allowed to reward them for their excellence?"

"Perhaps they feel they owe you for what you've done for them?"

"Nonsense. Sherlock rolled up the racketeering ring far more for the pleasure of solving the puzzle than for the victims involved, and I spent no more than a few hours in total of my time to ensure the paperwork was in order. A single one of their excellent meals would have repaid that more than adequately."

John grinned.

"Yeah, I don't think anyone really believes that a few hours of your time are of equal value to a single meal. A good lawyer costs what? A few hundred pounds an hour? I can't even imagine what an hour of your time would cost. And then there's the scholarships."

"Scholarships open up all the time, John. I merely facilitated that the correct people found the right scholarships."

"Right. Maybe it's pride then. Food is what they do, and what they can offer you."

Mycroft looked thoughtful.

"You think I've hurt their pride by leaving a modest sum of coin for their troubles?"

John shook his head.

"No. I think they're very grateful to find that 'modest sum' on the table. It's pride that makes them refuse to ask you for it, in the form of an actual bill."

Mycroft relaxed a little, and until he saw that, John hadn't realized Mycroft had tensed up.

"It was not an inadvertent insult, then, to leave the money?"

"Absolutely not," John replied.

Lestrade leaned over and kissed Mycroft's cheek.

"It really isn't, My. It's the proper thing to do."

Finally, Mycroft smiled a little, and relaxed back into his seat. "Good," he said quietly, "good."

It was only because he was up early the next morning that John was witness to the confirmation. He was making his way to the kitchen to see if he could get an early cup of tea, when his progress was slowed down by voices and sounds of clinking glass coming from the cheery room. 

"Oh, this is far too much!" Mrs Weaver exclaimed quietly.

A light chuckle was followed by a slightly familiar voice. John snuck closer and peered in.

"It'll never be enough to repay Mr Holmes, Mrs Weaver," Sanja said confidently, "but it's the least we can do. These are some of my grandmother's finest preserves, and Mr Holmes' favorites. I never tell her about the money Mr Holmes leaves, but of course she knows anyway, and so this morning she was waiting for me with this box and orders to deliver them here."

Mrs Weaver smiled softly.

"I shall be honored to use them and serve them in this house, Sanja. Please tell your grandmother that as well."

John withdrew as the two chatted a little more, and only came out of hiding when Austin showed Sanja out. He stepped into the kitchen.

"Oh! What's this then, Mrs Weaver?" he asked innocently, eyeing the large array of glass jars with delicious looking preserves Mrs Weaver was still eagerly examining.

She looked up and frowned at him sternly, but seeing his clearly fake innocent smile, she relented and her eyes twinkled back at him, taking years off her face.

"Don't you dare tell Mr Holmes."

"You really think he doesn't know?"

"Of course he knows. But we all need plausible deniability sometimes, Dr Watson."

They both chuckled.

"I tried to pay them at first, of course," she said, starting to put away the jars, "but sometimes it's better just to leave people their pride."

John nodded. Whether she was referring to Mycroft's pride or that of Sanja and his family wasn't clear, but really didn't matter.

"If you want me to stay quiet, you could always bribe me."

"Cup of tea?"

"That would be my price, yes."

"Consider it done," she hesitated a little, "John."

"Thank you… Janet."

And suddenly John felt so much more at home in this house with these people, and very thankful for it. They shared a cup of tea as they chatted quietly, and Mrs Weaver slowly became a friend.

*****

Having spent so much time at the restaurant, they arrived back at the house quite late. They shared a nightcap or two, and Anthea was the first to take her leave to go up to her own suite. The men followed her up shortly afterwards. 

Mycroft and Lestrade turned in to their room and were soon in bed, relaxed with full bellies and a good feeling about the day.

John turned in as well, but lay awake in his blue room. He was relieved and happy when a few minutes later, Sherlock knocked and came in.

"John."

"Hey, Sherlock. Want to come here and have a cuddle?"

"I don't cuddle, John. Please get that ridiculous notion out of your head right now."

"Of course," John replied, as he held up the sheets and allowed Sherlock to snuggle up to his body. They spent quite a few minutes in silence.

"Sherlock?" he finally said.

"Hmmm?"

"This afternoon, when we… when you…"

"What?"

"Didn't you want to… You didn't want me to reciprocate?"

John held his breath as he waited for an answer, unsure whether it would be in words, or in the form of a huff and a disappearing Sherlock.

"Reciprocate what? I got what I wanted."

"You did?"

Now he did get a huff, but Sherlock just snuggled closer instead of pulling away.

"Of course. If I hadn't, I would have sought out gratification. You should know better than that, John."

"Right," John said after a while, "of course."

A longer silence followed, and John allowed his fingers to trail up and down Sherlock's back as they were quiet in the darkness.

"This afternoon was not about you and me, John. It was about you. About showing you what you were ready for. About proving that I was correct. Soon, we will share that experience."

John shivered minutely at the certainty of that promise, and he swore he could feel Sherlock smile in the darkness.

"Soon, John. Soon. Sleep now."

He was not surprised and only slightly disappointed when he woke up alone early the next morning, and after checking on Sherlock - fast asleep in his own room and bed after a large meal, as Greg had told him - he went down to the kitchen to find an early cup of tea.

*****

"Yeah, I'm on my way. Twenty minutes or so."

They heard Lestrade's voice before he entered the kitchen in one of his work suits, tie still hanging loose around his neck. He gave Mrs Weaver a grateful look as she slid a cup of coffee in front of him, and they saw him wince when he obviously scalded his tongue. It was just before seven.

"Sorry. I've got to go in to the Yard. New case, and I've been called in especially."

"Oh," John said, "and Mycroft?"

"He and Anthea left for the office around four."

John blinked. He hadn't heard anything, and Mrs Weaver, who clearly knew from the expression on her face, hadn't said anything.

"Ah. Do you need us to… Should we go back to Baker Street?"

"Nah. Why? Sherlock'll sleep for a few hours more. Stay here, relax. Sherlock will tell you when he wants to leave. I'll let you know if there's anything, yeah?"

"Sure. Good luck!" John called out as Lestrade hurried away.

When John turned back around, Mrs Weaver was smiling at him a little tightly, the informality they had just been enjoying gone.

"What can I prepare for your breakfast, Dr Watson?"

He sighed.

"Just some toast, please, Mrs Weaver. With jam, if you have it?"

*****

After his breakfast of tea, toast and jam - Mrs Weaver produced seven different kinds, to his amusement - John showered and dressed, and then went for a walk around the grounds. He felt a little lost. 

Sherlock had been so certain and… and forceful about what had happened between them the day before, and with their dinner and the talk they'd had the previous night, John had mostly tried to let it go, but now he did feel a little uneasy about it. And to his amazement, not having Greg and Mycroft there to steady him was unnerving. John walked slowly, simply looking around. 

He realized that the thought of having Mycroft and Greg there to talk to whenever anything happened between him and Sherlock had comforted him. But now, they'd both gone into work, and John had no one to talk to, not even Anthea. Thinking of work, and seeing it was now a reasonable hour, he called Sarah. After a few pleasantries, he got down to business.

"Do you need me there, Sarah? It looks like things here have settled down, and I can come in to the surgery."

"Thanks," she said, "but it's pretty quiet here right now. We can handle things." She hesitated a little. "If you need the work… I can put you in touch with a few friends of mine who might be able to use a locum?"

"No, no! Thanks though. It's not like that. I just… I wanted you to know how much I appreciate all you've done for me. You know, how lenient you've been with me. And that if you need me, don't hesitate to call."

He heard her chuckle.

"No problem, John. I understand running around with Sherlock Holmes is more exciting than treating vomiting toddlers. And I know that when I do need you, you'll be there. Enjoy the time off! And I certainly don't mind you checking in from time to time."

John smiled.

"I will, I promise. Call if you need me, alright?"

They rang off amiably, and John couldn't help but smile. Sarah hadn't been cut out for the 'Sherlock Holmes lifestyle', but she hadn't begrudged John for loving it. After their brief relationship had ended, they'd become good friends, and she knew she could call on him any time for assistance at the surgery. John trudged on along the grounds.

*****

It was near midday when Sherlock finally came down, his attention glued to his phone. The sound had clearly been turned off, but a near constant stream of vibrations and Sherlock's nimble fingers dancing over the screen betrayed vigorous contact. They were called in to lunch, but while Sherlock sat there with the others, he refused to take a single bite, no matter how much John and Mrs Weaver glared at him. He was completely engrossed in his phone. 

After the most silent and subdued lunch John had ever had in the house, Sherlock withdrew to the library. Not knowing what else to do, John followed him there and, after watching Sherlock and his love affair with his phone for a little longer, selected a book at random and sat down to read. At some time during the afternoon, Mrs Weaver brought tea, which went untouched by Sherlock, and by the time they were called for dinner, John had no idea whether he'd actually read a single word from his book, or just spent his entire afternoon watching Sherlock.

John ate dinner in the kitchen with the staff. Sherlock sat there and paid attention only to his phone.

Lestrade returned around midnight. He stood in the doorway to the library, his eyes on Sherlock, who finally looked up, shook his head once and returned to his phone. Lestrade retreated. When John went to bed half an hour later, he saw Greg through the open door, suit and even shoes still on, face down on the duvet on his and Mycroft's bed, fast asleep. When he woke at five in the morning, Lestrade was gone, and Sherlock was still in the library.

*****

In the course of the morning, Sherlock's phone settled down. At first this seemed to please him, so much so that at lunch he even deigned to eat a few bites of scrambled egg and half a honey cake Mrs Weaver served him, but later in the afternoon, Sherlock started to fret. He seemed startled to get a call around four.

It was Lestrade, asking for his help. Normally, after this long without a case, Sherlock would be happy to be called out, but this time he was reluctant, and it took some negotiating before Sherlock sighed and said they'd be there. John followed without question. One of Mycroft's cars drove them to the scene, and Sherlock took a look around, then turned to Lestrade.

"What else do you have?"

Lestrade handed over a copy of a file.

"Anything?" Greg asked.

"A few theories on the case. I'll let you know when I've read the file. On the other thing, nothing."

Lestrade's face fell. 

"Okay, thanks. I'll see you later."

John knew he was missing a big something, and it was no stretch of the imagination that big something had to do with Mycroft. But he also knew better than to pressure either of the men right now. It was not his place, what they had was too new, and he was seeing echoes of behavior he'd seen in them before, but hadn't paid the proper attention to at the time. It would be explained to him, he was quite certain of that. Later. Patience.

The car took them back to the house, and Sherlock interspersed reading the file with checking his phone. At some point he snorted at the file, took out his phone and sent a text, but then he sank back into inertia. 

Sherlock didn't even come into the kitchen for dinner that night. Lestrade didn't come home at all.

*****

The next day, they met Lestrade at another crime scene at eight in the morning. The Detective Inspector looked haggard and grey, and Sherlock didn't look much better. 

"Anything?" Greg asked.

Sherlock glanced at him, then looked away.

"Let me take a look around," he said, and Lestrade seemed to deflate just a little more.

This crime scene provided Sherlock with the clues he needed, and he spouted off his findings to Greg, who listened and made notes and sent his people looking for evidence, but the entire thing was subdued. John, by now, was extremely worried, but knew any interference from him would be ill received. So he held his tongue, and resolved just to be there when they needed him.

*****

Lestrade returned late in the afternoon, took a single look at Sherlock, then fell onto the couch and snored quietly for three hours until his phone woke him again and he left. Sherlock just sat there, his eyes fixed on Lestrade. At one point, Sherlock got up, brushed his fingers through Greg's hair and kissed his greying temple, and whispered: "It'll be alright."

John nearly choked.

*****

The case Lestrade had called them in on broke the next morning. Arrests were made, confessions obtained, and paperwork mounted onto Greg's desk. He was sent home in the early afternoon after he'd been found asleep at his desk. Greg dropped onto the couch, dozing off again immediately, and Sherlock settled into him, phone clutched in his hand. John watched, as did the rest of the household.

A vibration caused Sherlock to turn to his phone instantaneously. 

"Greg," he whispered after reading the message, gently shoving the body he'd been curled into. "Greg, come on, wake up!"

Lestrade groaned, but opened his eyes.

"On the way back," Sherlock said.

"Okay?" Lestrade asked.

"Alive," Sherlock replied.

And that was all John got until forty minutes later, after watching his lover and his friend fret themselves into a frenzy, when Mycroft and Anthea entered through the front door.

*****

"Medics?" Sherlock demanded upon seeing his brother and Anthea.

"We've been seen to on the plane, brother dear," Mycroft bit through clenched teeth as he leaned on Anthea, clearly trying to avoid putting weight on his left leg.

"Not good enough, Mycroft," Lestrade said firmly, taking Mycroft's weight from Anthea and supporting him to the closest room and couch.

"John!" Sherlock called, catching Anthea when Lestrade took his brother.

"Your bag, Dr Watson," Austin murmured next to John, holding out John's trusty black medical bag.

Shaking his head, John followed the walking wounded into the room.

At first glance, Mycroft was definitely the worst off, but of course he insisted John see to Anthea first. She had clearly been 'smacked around a bit', as she herself put it, bruises and minor cuts on her face and littering her torso and arms. The cuts had been cleaned and the worst ones bandaged, and John could find nothing more really to do for her other then enforce bed rest, painkillers and antibiotics.

Mycroft was a different matter.

While John was checking Anthea and Sherlock hovered, keeping an eagle eye on everything, Lestrade and Austin were carefully peeling Mycroft out of his clothes. There were quiet hisses from Greg and soft moans from Mycroft, and that alone should have warned John about the severity of Mycroft's condition, because the controlled man would never allow such obvious signs of discomfort to be seen or heard if he could have stopped them. It was when Lestrade opened and peeled back Mycroft's waistcoat and a chorus of 'Damnit, Mycroft!' came from Greg, Sherlock and Anthea simultaneously, that John turned his attention to the man and saw the large patch of blood soaking his shirt and the top of his trousers.

"Scissors, John," Sherlock demanded, and as Mycroft gave him a pained glance, he huffed. "Forget the suit, brother mine. Not even your cleaner can salvage that."

John nodded, but instead of handing the scissors to Sherlock, used them himself. First he cut off the shirt and the vest underneath, then, after only a small hesitation, the trousers as well. A ragged cut covered Mycroft's right side, almost from his armpit to his hip, and his left leg had clearly been used for target practice by someone with a chain. The deep bruising still showed the distinctive pattern of chain links, although they would amalgamate into an indistinct huge bruise in a few more hours, and his left knee was swollen to almost double its size, and seemed to be swelling even further right in front of their eyes.

"Yeah, you need a hospital, Mycroft," John said.

"No."

Even sitting there in only his pants and socks, covered in blood and bruises, Mycroft's tone was regal and commanding, and not to be disobeyed.

"My, please," Greg tried nonetheless.

"If you cannot take care of this, Dr Watson, I shall have Dr Havers brought here."

John looked up at Sherlock, and then at Greg, quietly asking for their opinions. Sherlock was clearly in favor of John treating his brother, and Lestrade silently concurred. John sighed.

"Alright. Alright, I'll do it." He looked around. "Can you get him up on that table?" he asked Greg and Austin, "It'll give me easier access."

A few minutes later, Lestrade, Austin and Sherlock had carefully lifted Mycroft up onto the table and John had washed up and given Mycroft several shots of local anesthetic along the cut on his side. As he waited for the anesthetic to work its magic, he carefully examined Mycroft's leg. Mycroft winced and moaned twice as John gently poked and prodded, but assured him there were no broken bones, merely tissue damage. John wasn't satisfied, but understood he wasn't going to get Mycroft to an X-ray machine right then. Instead, he went to work on the cut.

Anthea was helped to her suite by Mrs Weaver and Amanda, and they assisted her in a flannel wash so as to not let her cuts get wet, and Amanda washed Anthea's hair in the sink to rinse out the blood she'd spotted there. By the time John was putting in the last of two dozen stitches to Mycroft's side, Anthea was back in the room, clean and dressed in comfortable sweats. Austin had fetched some loose shorts, a button down shirt and clean socks for Mycroft, and when John had finished and was cleaning himself up, Greg and Austin cleaned and dressed Mycroft. He felt mildly ridiculous, but understood that the shorts were so he could ice his leg, and the button down shirt was easier for him to put on than a t-shirt, since he wouldn't have to raise his arms and stretch the cut and stitches.

After some more careful maneuvering, they were in the main living room, Mycroft stretched out on one of the couches, ice on his leg and Lestrade sitting on the floor next to him, running his hand through Mycroft's hair over and over. Anthea was curled into one of the large armchairs, attention on her phone. Sherlock hovered. John sat and watched. It was as if they were waiting for something.

Almost an hour later, that was proved correct.

"All teams secure, Sir," Anthea reported, finally looking up from her phone.

"Casualties?" Mycroft asked.

"None on our side. Minor injuries only."

"All targets acquired?"

"Yes, Sir."

Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes, took Gregory's hand and pressed almost distracted kisses to his knuckles and fingers, something that clearly calmed him down. 

"Entonov?" Sherlock asked from his position still hovering over Mycroft.

"Zalurenko," Anthea provided.

"Well," Sherlock breathed, clearly surprised, "isn't that interesting." And then he threw himself onto the couch next to John and adopted his thinking pose.

"Indeed, my sweet, indeed," Mycroft said, opening his eyes and beckoning Lestrade down for a kiss to the lips, which was gladly bestowed. When Lestrade pulled back, Mycroft smiled at him. "How did your case go, dearest?"

Greg shrugged.

"There was something telling me that if we didn't find him soon, many more people would be killed. So I asked Sherlock to help. And it was right, the guy had a list, My, a long list of victims who'd never done anything more than look at him strangely. If Sherlock hadn't helped, there would have been more dead before we figured it out."

"Then I'm very glad together you managed to solve it."

John sat there, goggling at them. Mycroft and Anthea returned home after being cut up and tortured, and they were discussing Lestrade's case? What the hell? Didn't Greg, who'd clearly been in the dark just as much as John had been, want to know what happened to Mycroft? Lestrade may have the patience of a saint sometimes, but John certainly didn't.

"Never mind that! What the hell happened to you two?" burst from his lips before he could stop himself.

Mycroft, Greg and Anthea turned to him. Sherlock, deeply into his Mind Palace, didn't move.

"A minor matter of international politics turning less… conversational and more… brute force," Mycroft finally supplied.

John waited for something further, but after a few minutes it was clear no more would be coming. He huffed.

"That's it? That's all you'll tell us! You limp in here in that state, but you won't tell us more?"

"John," the good doctor startled when it was Sherlock's quiet baritone that addressed him, "my brother, Anthea and I have been working on this for months. And now there has been a twist that none of us predicted. Do you really think we could explain it to you right now in a few sentences?"

As John turned to him, he clearly saw Sherlock sinking back into his Mind Palace. Anthea smirked and went back to her phone, and Mycroft continued taking comfort in touching his Gregory, caressing his face and hands. John stood.

"I'm going to the gym."

*****

John was flushed and sweating and his shoulders and arms hurt when he finally stopped hitting the punching bag. 

"You done?"

Looking up at the question, John saw Lestrade standing next to the fridge, arms crossed over his chest, his posture completely relaxed. John nodded.

"Good. Sit down before you keel over."

Greg pulled a bottle of energy drink out of the fridge and sat down next to John, handing the bottle to him.

"They know we're not actually stupid, you know," Lestrade started. John smirked and Greg grinned back.

"Not compared to most people. But no one is going to deny that compared to them, we just can't follow along that quickly. What Mycroft and Anthea do, that's classified. Sherlock has clearance, of course, but I don't think even he knows everything about it. I don't even want to know. I've got enough to deal with on my own."

"So you just accept that your lover and his PA got tortured by some Russians or whatever, and smile and tell him about some deranged madman in London with a grudge against people who cut in front of him in the line at the coffee shop, and…"

"They're home, and they're alive, and they'll be alright. That's all I can ask."

John stared at him.

"You're insane."

Greg nodded.

"Probably. But you are too, if you think they're going to tell you everything."

John drank from his bottle and finally sighed.

"How do you do it?"

"I have no choice. I've known from the beginning there were plenty of things Mycroft would never tell me. Including even where he was going when he was leaving town. It took me a little bit to realize that someday he might not come back. And I wouldn't know where he'd gone or what had happened, and no one would ever tell me. Not even Sherlock. And I'd never know whether he'd been killed in the line of duty, be stuck in some hole somewhere, or had simply grown tired of me and his life and decided to disappear and live it up with some boy toy in the Bahamas."

They both managed a grin at that last one.

"I'd never know. But," Greg continued, "I know he'd be sorry. He'd be sorry if he died, he'd be sorry if he got caught and locked up somewhere, and he'd even be sorry if he chucked it all and went off to live the good life somewhere, because he'd know I'd think the worst. And I know he wouldn't want that for me. And you know something else?"

"What?"

"I also know that if something happened to me, he'd never stop looking for me and get revenge. Him, and Sherlock, and I think even Anthea, they'd burn London to a crisp, raze the country and half the world if they had to to find out what happened to me. I realize it's weird, but that thought is a comfort. They'd care enough for me to do that. And they'd do it for you too."

John swallowed.

"That's some very odd sense of romanticism you've got, Greg."

Lestrade grinned again.

"I know. But the very fact that you'd call it that, tells me you feel the same."

John blinked, then started laughing.

"Let's never have anything happen to us then, eh? We wouldn't want to anger the Queen by having the Holmes brothers destroy her country for our sakes, not after that lovely tea we had with Her Majesty just the other day."

Greg laughed too. 

"Take a shower, John, and let it go. Questions are fine, but not about work. They'll tell us what they can, what we need to know. I'll see you in the living room, yeah?"

*****

When John made it back to the living room, freshly showered and dressed, he found Lestrade there on his own.

"They're working," Greg said, and poured them both a whiskey. "Sherlock suddenly surfaced from his Mind Palace, and they went to Mycroft's study."

"Sherlock found a clue?"

"I guess."

They didn't say very much else, just hung out in front of the telly with a drink. And when Austin came to fetch them for dinner in the kitchen some time later, neither were very surprised the other three weren't joining them.

*****

Lestrade woke in his bed at the rising dawn, because the bedroom door was opened. He blinked and looked.

"Sherlock?"

The consulting detective closed the door firmly, then walked over and dropped onto the bed next to the inspector. He spoke quietly.

"We have a new theory on Zalurenko. Most of the captives have been quite forthcoming. A new plan has been put in place, we should know more in less than sixteen hours. It shall include a measure of… retaliation."

"Good," Greg said with a little malice.

"Should I disclose this to John?"

"No. I told him you don't talk about the work."

"Isn't that… lying?"

"Sherlock…"

"Or is it that you like knowing more than John does? That you are aware of parts of what is going on, and don't want John to have the same information? Be as important?"

Alarmed, Lestrade sat up and settled against the headboard. He switched on the dim light on the nightstand, so he could at least see Sherlock's face.

"That's what you think of me?"

Sherlock glanced up, then turned away again immediately.

"I told John this afternoon that if anything ever happened to me, you'd raze the country to find who did it and bring them to justice."

"Of course I would!" Sherlock flared, indignantly. "We would!"

"Because you care about me."

Sherlock looked up again, catching Lestrade's eyes. Greg scooted down a little, so he could look straight into Sherlock's gaze.

"What have I done to make you doubt that I love you just as much, if not more, as you do me? I'm not playing favorites. I'm not competing with John. I'm just saying that he and I are not the same. He won't stop asking questions when you say it's classified. He won't accept knowing just part of what is happening. You've got him tightly tied to you. Apart from you, he's only got a few hours here and there at the clinic, the rest of his time is all about you. When you're not actually working a case, he's writing about you, or trying to take care of you. I'm not saying that's not good, it works for you. But that's not how I work. I have a job that keeps me pretty busy. I don't have time to look after you and Mycroft every second of every day. I worry about you, but I can't be there all the time. And I can't be involved in everything the two of you get up to. I know that, and I accept it. Will John do the same, given the difference in our circumstances?"

Even in the dim light, Lestrade clearly saw Sherlock's deep frown, a known sign of him trying to process.

"Tell John if you want to. It makes no difference to me."

He kissed Sherlock's dark curls and looked at him again.

"You okay?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Good. Now, where is your brother? Tell me he didn't try to climb the stairs with that leg of his!"

This time, Sherlock actually gave a small smile.

"He wanted to. Anthea and I put him on the sofa in his study instead, and he was out like a light just before I came up here. I'm sure he'd appreciate your company."

"Right then. I'll go find him there, shall I? You'll be alright?"

"Yes, yes! Go to my brother!" Sherlock sat up and waved imperiously. But before Greg reached the door, Sherlock spoke again.

"I sucked John off in the hut that day."

Lestrade froze, his mind shutting down, booting up again and then flailing through several responses.

"Yeah? You two have fun?" he finally asked, keeping his back to Sherlock.

"He certainly enjoyed it."

"And you?"

"I liked it well enough."

"Well, he's new to…"

"Lestrade," Sherlock sighed, "I meant I like sucking him well enough. There was no reciprocation."

Now Greg did turn around.

"Why not?"

"It was about John, not me."

"Did you…"

"Yes, I did have an erection."

"But you didn't…"

"I didn't ask and he didn't offer at the time. I think he was still a bit addle minded. He was asleep when I started, you see."

Lestrade swallowed.

"You didn't get..."

"Don't say 'permission', Lestrade!"

"Okay. Okay! I can't deal with this right now. We'll talk about this later, if I don't - God please grant me your favor - forget this entire conversation. I'm going to find your brother, and you can go find John. And, please, don't do anything to him while he's asleep!"

Then Lestrade pulled open the bedroom door and disappeared as quickly as he could.

*****

Mycroft woke after only an hour or two of sleep, the pain in his leg and side waking him up. He opened his eyes to the most welcome sight of Gregory slumped in a comfortably big armchair he'd dragged over next to Mycroft's couch.

"Gregory?" Mycroft said softly.

Lestrade's eyes fluttered open immediately.

"Hey, My. How're you feeling?"

"I could do with another pain pill. John gave them to me yesterday, they are there on the table. Would you mind?"

Greg grabbed the little bottle of pills and handed them to Mycroft, then went to the little fridge behind Mycroft's desk and pulled a cold bottle of water from it, handing that over too. Mycroft made use of both.

"Any progress?"

"Sherlock already told you," Mycroft said confidently. Seeing Lestrade's blush, Mycroft sighed. "He told you more than that. What did he say this time?"

Gregory told him honestly, both about the insinuation that Greg wanted to be one up on John, and the encounter in the hut.

"Ah, yes," Mycroft answered, "I had surmised as much. Not about his feelings regarding the classification of information though. Should we be concerned?"

"I don't think so. I think it's just more of us finding our way with John in the mix. He never would have thought something like that before." Greg hesitated. "Would he?"

Mycroft smiled.

"Of course not, my dearest, and he does not do so now. I believe you are correct. Incorporating John Watson at this level will require adjustments of us all."

"Let's worry about that later. How are you, really, My?"

Mycroft looked at Greg, to show him his eyes for honesty.

"Some pain in my leg and side, not too bad, but certainly annoying. The pills should help. And perhaps another cold pack?" He eyed a few of the used blue packs on the floor. "Sherlock put some back into the little freezer there during the night. They won't help against swelling now, but at least the cold numbs."

Lestrade nodded and went back to the fridge, taking the used packs and putting them in the small freezer compartment after he'd taken out the cold ones. Mycroft hissed when Greg had wrapped them in cloth and applied them to his dreadfully swollen knee. Then Lestrade sat down next to Mycroft on the floor and brushed through his hair again.

"They only had us for a few hours, Gregory," Mycroft finally said.

"Sherlock started worrying on the second day."

"And he had reason to. The negotiations seemed to be going well, as I informed my brother, and then suddenly we lost contact. We managed to evade them for quite some time, but then were unfortunately detained. Anthea was the very paragon of bravery and excellence, of course."

"Did they…?"

"Heaven forbid, no. She made it quite clear nothing they could do to her would make me talk, and they believed her. So they tried me. They blindfolded her. Sound can be so evocative, making one imagine worse things than are actually happening. That is why she did not know I had been cut."

"Why didn't you tell her?"

"And have her worry and cart me off to a secret clinic? I needed to be here with you, Gregory."

"I could have waited just a little longer. Once I knew you were safe. If I knew it was because you were getting medical attention!"

"Perhaps you could have, my dearest, but I could not. I needed to see your lovely face."

Greg stared at Mycroft, completely at a loss for words. A few tears managed to escape his eyes and drip down his stubbled cheeks, and then his lips curved into that radiant, boyish smile Mycroft loved so much. Greg brought Mycroft's hand to his lips and kissed it, over and over again.

"I love you too, Mycroft," he finally whispered. "I love you too."

*****

John woke to find Sherlock in his bed. The consulting detective was curled up into himself, his back to John, no touching. John tried to move quietly, but Sherlock hadn't been asleep. He turned over at John's first move.

"Morning," John said.

"There are things I cannot tell you, John, things other people know, but I still cannot share with you."

"Okay…" John replied, trying to shake the sleep out of his head, "can we talk about that later, if it's necessary? Only, I've just woken up, and I'm not ready for discussions about state secrets and things. And I want to check on your brother and Anthea. Okay?"

Sherlock fairly beamed at him and nodded.

"Okay then. Your brother's in his room?"

"No, his study. We thought it best not to move him upstairs. Greg's with him."

"Good," John yawned. "I'll take a quick turn in the bathroom, then go check on him. Did you get any sleep?"

"I'll sleep later."

Seeing he wasn't going to make any headway there, John gave in. He used the bathroom, washed his hands and face, rinsed his mouth, and came out again to grab his bag and go find Mycroft.

"To the study then," he said to Sherlock.

They found Mycroft and Greg, awake and clearly quite emotional, in Mycroft's office. John decided not to ask, and saw that, for once, Sherlock was either too sleepy or too disinterested to make his deductions, so he just asked about Mycroft's pain level and use of the pills and ice packs. Then he checked the stitches and Mycroft's leg.

"I'm really not happy with this knee, Mycroft. Can I at least take you to the clinic for an X-ray? I can arrange it with Sarah so it'll stay a secret, if you need that."

"Do you truly think that is necessary, John?"

"Yes, I do. This is not normal even for a severe injury, and I worry about fractures. Your lower leg, too."

"Alright, that's it," Greg said. "You're getting your picture taken, My, and I don't care who does or it where, but it's going to happen."

"Dr Havers and the portable X-ray machine should be here at ten this morning, Sir," Anthea said from the doorway.

Mycroft glowered, Sherlock and John smirked, and Lestrade beamed at her. At last, Mycroft sighed.

"Thank you, my dear. And when did you make this arrangement?"

"I sent a preliminary request yesterday after Dr Watson's assessment, and confirmed just now when he pronounced the need for it."

"Well, I'm dashed! Everyone seems to be against me today!" Mycroft exclaimed dramatically, then turned an evil grin on Anthea. "However, you've happily arrived just in time to have the good doctor examine you as well, my dear. Please do sit and submit to a thorough examination."

"But…" she protested, "I've only got some cuts and bruises, while you may have broken bones! I'm fine! I can walk, see?"

"Then walk yourself over to that chair, my dear, and let Dr Watson perform his medical magic on you."

She glared at Mycroft, then glared at the others when she saw them grinning at her, and sat herself down with a huff. John did indeed thoroughly check her over, and found her cuts were healing nicely, no signs of infection, and her bruises were over the worst point, and would start to fade. She adamantly denied there were any other pains or injuries, and left immediately after John finished, to go to the kitchen to see about breakfast.

After she'd left, Lestrade couldn't help but ask, just to be absolutely certain.

"My, you're sure they didn't…"

"She may have been blindfolded for a time, Gregory, but I wasn't. I had my eyes on her for the entire duration. Other than the wounds you see, she was not touched or harmed."

It suddenly hit John. Of course, how could he not have thought of that, especially with his military history! He'd seen it before! A beautiful woman like Anthea, captured and… 

Sherlock grabbed John's arm and practically dragged him out of the room and up the stairs.

"Shower, John," he said, pushing the doctor into the bathroom and following him in. 

"But…"

"It didn't happen," Sherlock said forcefully. "Mycroft wouldn't lie, not about that, and I have not seen any evidence of it."

"So you…"

"John! Do you really think that if someone had touched Anthea that way against her will, they would still be alive and being questioned right now?"

A quick flashback flitted through John's mind, Greg telling him basically the same, but then about Sherlock.

He breathed deeply and nodded, but his mind was still too preoccupied by the thought to really appreciate that he was getting naked and into the shower, and Sherlock was joining him.

*****

When they came back downstairs, clean and dressed, Austin directed them to a drawing room John had only seen once, on the tour Sherlock had given him on his first day at the house. Compared to all the other rooms they'd spent most of their time in, this one was stuffy and seldom used, and for a few moments John wondered why they were using it now. But then he realized. Its location directly off the front door meant that Dr Havers, when she arrived, wouldn't see any more of the house than strictly necessary. She was trusted to a certain degree that meant she could be let into the house, but not enough to let her into the heart of it, as John had been. 

They were served a light breakfast there, so Mycroft didn't have to move around the house again. 

At precisely ten, the doorbell rang and moments later, Austin showed in a strikingly tall woman in her early fifties. William and Geoffrey, the two footmen, followed behind, carrying her equipment. If she was surprised by all the people in the room, she didn't show it. She was all business.

"Mr Holmes."

"Dr Havers, thank you for making the time for this visit."

"That is my job, Sir. I've read the initial reports of the medical staff who saw you on the plane. Is there anything else you should tell me?"

"I have an additional injury I did not disclose to them."

She raised an eyebrow.

"And why was that?"

"It was more imperative that I return here as soon as possible. It has been seen to now."

"Hmmm. I'll be the judge of that, thank you. Should we have some privacy?"

"No need."

That eyebrow of hers rose again, but she was clearly not going to argue or comment. Mycroft, still reclined on one of the couches, quickly undid the buttons of his shirt and let it fall open. Seeing the bandage on his side revealed, she knelt next to him.

"Can you sit up and remove your shirt completely?"

He managed with some difficulty, and she carefully removed the bandage, then studied the cut and stitches.

"The cut is long but thankfully relatively shallow," she said, as if she was dictating for a report. "It has been cleaned well, and stitched professionally." She looked up. "Who did it, it not the medics?"

John wasn't sure if he should reveal his identity, but Mycroft gestured to him and said: "Dr John Watson."

She glanced at John.

"You are a licensed and registered physician, I trust?"

"I certainly am."

"Good. Excellent work on this. I expect it will heal well and without problems. Now, the leg? Dr Watson?"

John stepped forward and gave his opinion, describing what he'd seen the previous night. As he'd expected, the distinctive bruises showing the chain links had now turned into a huge mass of black and blue.

"Apart from the bruising, I suspect bone damage to the knee, and to the lower leg. I don't think the bone is actually broken, but certainly suspect minor fractures."

Continuing her examination, Dr Havers nodded.

"I suspect you might be right."

She got up and set up the portable X-ray machine the footmen had carried in for her. About fifteen minutes later, Dr Havers and John were leaning over the laptop screen that showed the X-rays of Mycroft's leg, and they conferred quietly. Finally, she turned back to Mycroft.

"Dr Watson was correct. The damage to your knee appears to be mostly tissue and cartilage injuries, but both bones in your lower leg show hairline fractures. Nothing too problematic. Normally, I'd put you in a light cast, but considering the swelling, and the fact that you won't be able to stand on that leg with your knee in that condition anyway, a brace will suffice. Stay off that leg, Mr Holmes. No weight on it whatsoever. I shall fetch the brace and some crutches for you from the car."

Austin guided her outside and back in, and a few minutes later, Mycroft's lower leg was firmly strapped into the brace, which oddly gave him some relief. Dr Havers turned to Anthea.

"Now, Miss Anthea…"

Anthea sighed, and subjected herself to the fourth examination of her cuts and bruises in twenty-four hours. 

*****

Dr Havers was there for just over an hour. She discussed the medications John had prescribed both patients, agreed and decided to continue them, gave them some instructions on further care and finally took her leave. Despite Mycroft's urging, she refused to leave John's name and the actions he'd taken out of her report, which John certainly respected her for. After they'd packed her equipment back into the car and seen her off, they made their way back to the living room, Mycroft a little unsteady on his new crutches, but thankful he could move around a little easier now.

"So," John asked when they were all seated, "what do we do now?"

"Now we wait," Lestrade answered, and switched on the telly and flipped quietly through channels with one hand while Mycroft held the other. John suspected he would rather have been on the huge couch with Mycroft, who'd stretched out on it comfortably, but that spot had been taken up by Sherlock as soon as his brother was settled. They both understood this was Sherlock's response to having been worried about Mycroft and seeing him injured, and couldn't begrudge him the comfort of holding Mycroft close for a bit. It wasn't long before both Holmeses were asleep.

"Wait for what?"

"We'll know when it happens," Lestrade answered mysteriously, and those were the last words spoken for a long time.

*****

John eventually got out his laptop and picked at his blog a little, went through their e-mails and requests for assistance addressed to Sherlock, browsed the internet and basically wasted most of the day like that. Lestrade watched telly for a while, then picked up a book. Anthea as always spent the time on her phone, retreating to the office a few times, presumably to take or make calls. They were served drinks and snacks in the living room. It was a very quiet day, but John could feel some tension, even in the Holmes brothers, who slept together on the couch until finally, around four in the afternoon, Anthea came back and nodded at Greg.

Lestrade gently shook Mycroft, waking both him and Sherlock. 

"Yes?" Mycroft asked, blinking himself awake and, when Sherlock released him, sitting up.

"It's done, Sir," Anthea said and handed him a tablet. Mycroft scrolled through what must have been pages and pages of reports for long minutes, Sherlock reading along over his shoulder. Sometimes, one or the other would huff or hum, and even chuckle. At last, Mycroft put the tablet down.

"Well," he said.

"Exactly," Sherlock replied.

The brothers grinned at each other, then turned back to them, trying to look serious again.

"Excellent work, Anthea, as always," Mycroft praised her.

"The thing with the phone was inspired," Sherlock told her.

She beamed widely at them, then hugged and kissed them both. Laughing, she did the same to Greg and John for good measure, which caused chuckling from all of them. When they calmed again, Mycroft turned to Gregory and John.

"Danger has been averted, peace restored, the guilty apprehended and the innocent set free."

"And those Russian guys you mentioned earlier?" John asked.

"Are wishing they'd never even heard of my brother, let alone touched him and Anthea," Sherlock said darkly.

"And Anthea the mastermind behind it all," Mycroft smiled, lightening the tone again.

She blushed.

"It was your plan, Sir."

"Nonsense, my dear! You carried the bulk of it, and put some very fine finishing touches on its execution. I say we celebrate! John? Surely a celebratory drink will not interfere with our recovery or mix badly with our medication?"

"Well, it's not recommended… but I don't see any harm in it."

"Drinks all around then! I know just the bottle! Austin?"

A few moments later, Austin appeared.

"Sir?"

"A celebration, Austin! Could you please fetch the…" and he named what John later understood was a sixty year old whiskey. "And please, have everyone join us if they wish. A celebration for all."

And so, a little later, family and staff alike sat in the living room, sipping the smoothest, tastiest whiskey most of them had ever had, laughing and chatting. The staff had no idea what exactly was being celebrated, but it wasn't hard to guess it had something to do with the state their employer and Miss Anthea were in, and a successful operation to set that injustice to rights.

When Mycroft once again praised Anthea for her part in it, Mrs Weaver turned to the young woman. 

"Well, why not a celebratory dinner in you honor, Miss Anthea? Anything in particular you would like?"

There were smiles all around, because most of them knew exactly what Anthea would choose if at all possible.

"I wouldn't want to impose, Mrs Weaver!" 

"No imposition at all, dear. I have most of your favorites stashed away somewhere, and I'm sure Geoffrey wouldn't mind a quick trip to the butcher's?" Mrs Weaver looked to the footman, who smiled widely and nodded to let them know he wouldn't mind at all.

"Excellent!" Mycroft said. "Enough for all! William, perhaps your lovely wife would care to join us as well, if she is not otherwise occupied?"

"I'm sure she'd love to. I'll call her right away, Mr Holmes."

They sat and chatted a little longer, then gradually the staff drifted off to prepare for the dinner. Anthea followed Mrs Weaver, Amanda and Geoffrey to the kitchen to discuss plans. 

"So what's for dinner then?" John asked. "Anthea never said."

"Ah," Mycroft smiled. "Anthea spent some time in Texas years ago where she had the misfortune to fall in love with barbecue."

John frowned.

"Why misfortune?"

"Because apparently it is extremely difficult to find something that approximates Texas barbecue in this country. Imagine her delight when she discovered that Geoffrey not only also deeply appreciates that particular food, but actually worked for some time in a genuine establishment there that serves the stuff, and therefore knows the secret of preparing it to her liking."

"We're having a barbecue?"

"A Texas barbecue, John."

John stared at their smiling faces, then looked outside where the sun was still shining brightly and promising a comfortably warm evening.

"Well, alright then."

*****

About an hour and a half later, John was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, and sitting out on the patio in the sunshine, drink in hand, looking around in amazement. William and Geoffrey had brought out a large barbecue from somewhere and set it up, filling it with a mixture of coal and wood and lighting it expertly. Then Geoffrey had disappeared to the butcher's and returned half an hour later with two huge bags filled with meats. During his absence, Austin and William had set up extra tables and chairs on the patio, which were quickly set and filled with all kinds of things by Jenna and Marie, the two maids. 

Everyone had disappeared inside for a few minutes to return in casual clothes, even Mrs Weaver and Austin, which was strange to John, as he'd only ever seen the staff in uniforms, apart from Amanda. But now they were all in shorts and summer dresses, and Sherlock had taken John upstairs to change as well, Sherlock even deigning to put on shorts for the occasion too. Mycroft and Greg had taken a little longer, as Mycroft had wanted to wash up with Greg's help, but they too were now here in shorts and casual shirts.

John had finally met Christy, Williams's pregnant wife, who did the flowers for Mycroft's house, and had chatted with her for a bit until Mycroft and Greg came down and she excused herself to go talk to Mycroft. Everyone was bustling about around them, helping where they could. It looked far more like a family gathering than a mixture of upperclass and staff, and John found he really liked the atmosphere.

Sherlock and Anthea were carefully paying attention to Geoffrey as he mixed his marinades, sauces and spices, and dipped meats to get them ready for the fire. Greg was showing his inner caveman, offering to tend to the fire with a big smile on his face. Seeing the huge amounts of different salads, breads, dips and sauces appear, John wondered how they were ever going to eat all that, but then he realized that Mycroft and Sherlock, and even Anthea and Greg, hadn't eaten much over the past four days.

Next to him, Mycroft and Christy spoke quietly, she expressing concern for his injuries, he earnestly inquiring after her health and the course of her pregnancy. It was almost surreal.

The evening lasted long into the night. John had to admit Geoffrey was a true master, not that he really had anything to compare it to, because this was a far cry from the burgers and sausages his mind conjured up at the word barbecue. There were ribs and pork loins and chicken, even some steak and fish, and all of it basted in delicious sauces, some sweet, some spicy. There were drinks and salads and potatoes, and warm breads with butter and herbs, and each and every bite was finger licking good. Fingers and faces were covered in sauce, and no one, not even the Holmes brothers, seemed to mind.

Every time John thought he couldn't possibly eat anything else, Geoffrey came round with his platter of sizzling meats, or Jenna would hand over another bowl of salad, and he'd be tempted into having just a little more.

When the sun was down and the air started to cool, Austin, William and Greg brought out five braziers, carefully placed them around the company, and lit them, providing enough warmth to still be comfortable.

It really was a party, a celebration, and the most fun and pleasant one John had been to in years. Silence never fell, everyone was engaged in conversation with everyone, even Mycroft and Sherlock. The only thing that would have indicated this was not just a party of friends enjoying a good time together, was that Mycroft was always addressed as Mr Holmes, and Sherlock was Mr Sherlock, and John was Dr Watson, even while they were talking and laughing quite openly together. Greg was the exception. He was Greg to all of them, even Mrs Weaver and Austin. John hoped that sometime in the future, all things going right, he would someday just be John.

*****

It was around two in the morning when the fires were finally tamped down, the tables cleared, and everyone headed off to bed.

Sherlock had hesitated in the upstairs hallway, torn about where he wished to sleep, but eventually decided he didn't want to crowd Mycroft in bed with his injuries, and opted to sleep in his own bed. John hoped Sherlock would join him, but fell asleep after a few minutes of waiting. A knock on his door in the morning made him open his eyes and smile though, expecting it to be Sherlock.

It wasn't.

"John? You awake?"

"Greg? Yeah, come in."

"Sorry to wake you, but I've got to go into the office."

"What time's it?"

"Nearly seven."

"Christ, Greg!"

"I know, sorry. Listen, I have to go. Can you look in on Mycroft for me? Please?"

"Yeah," John sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, "yeah, of course. Sorry. Case?"

"Looks like it. Hey, sleep a little longer, yeah? Then check Mycroft?"

"I will. Sure I will. Go. Call if there's anything you need, okay?"

"Thanks, John."

Lestrade disappeared as quietly as he had entered.

*****

John slept for over an hour more, checked on Sherlock and Mycroft, both still fast asleep in their own beds, then showered and dressed. He threw out a cheery 'good morning' to Mrs Weaver and Amanda as he entered the kitchen, and frowned when they didn't respond.

"What's happened now?" he asked, and Mrs Weaver just gestured towards the living room. John made his way there quickly, to find Greg slumped into one of the chairs, eyes closed and head thrown back, Anthea sitting next to him looking anxious.

"What's going on?"

Lestrade opened his eyes.

"John, hi. Mycroft okay?"

"Still asleep. Same as Sherlock. What are you doing back here? I thought you had a case?"

Lestrade sighed and leaned back again.

"Later, okay?"

"No, Greg! Not okay! Something's clearly wrong, and I've just about had enough of things going wrong and me not being told about them! Tell me now!"

"When My and Sherlock are up, yeah? Can it wait until then?"

"Fine," John said, and shared a look with Anthea. She clearly agreed with his plan, and he turned and left, going back upstairs to wake the brothers.

Only a few minutes later, Sherlock and John flanked Mycroft as he stumbled into the living room on his crutches. Lestrade glared at John and then at Anthea for good measure, then sighed and fell back again. Mycroft settled himself, then twitched uneasily. Sherlock frowned as he took his place beside his brother.

"What is it, dearest? What happened? I thought you had a case?"

Lestrade didn't look up, didn't open his eyes at all. He spoke quietly.

"So did I. Except, it turned out to be a meeting. With the Chief Constable."

"What?"

"He said he was doing me a courtesy calling me in before my team arrived, and then suspended me."

"What?!"

"He had several very nice photographs, all time stamped of course, of me having dinner out, getting into sleek black cars, visiting the house of a dominatrix, riding a quad, having lunch, visiting a cottage in the country and staying the night… all while I was supposed to be on secondment. He said if I wanted a holiday, I should have just used my vacation days, not finagle a bogus assignment and live the good life for a bit. I think he was really quite pissed I had been having a good time."

"Gregory…"

"No! I deserve it. I thought… For once, I thought fuck it! I know what they do with their time, their lunches and golf games and afternoons with their mistresses, and I thought, if they can do that, I can have a few days with you, I can justify that. Family emergency, you know? And even then, I still went in whenever they called. But it's always the same. They get away with it, I get what I deserve. The bad guys can do whatever they want, but those of us who try to be good guys… not even a few days without being taking down for it."

Mycroft looked horrified, Sherlock thoughtful. Greg sighed again.

"Fuck it," he said, "I'm going back to bed."

*****

No one followed Lestrade as he left the room. John was still in shock, but Mycroft, Sherlock and Anthea calmly sat back into their seats.

"Who did we miss?" Sherlock asked.

"Whoever it is, they work fast," Anthea said. "The pictures were clearly part of an insurance policy against retaliation, but to get them to the Chief Constable and have him act on them a mere twelve hours after…"

"Yes, quite right. Did Gregory… He did say cottage in the country, didn't he?" Mycroft looked to the other two.

"I'll have your parents picked up and brought to London right away, Sir. Safe house 41?"

Mycroft hesitated then scowled, and put his hand on Sherlock's arm as a precaution even before he spoke.

"No, dear. Have them brought here."

Sherlock moved to get up in outrage, and there once again Mycroft proved how well he knew his brother. His hand tightened, and Sherlock bristled but remained seated.

"Here?! Mycroft!"

"You know why, Sherlock."

Sherlock clenched his jaw.

"Fine. And the Chief Constable?"

"Anthea, dear. Could you set up a meeting for the Chief Constable and the Chief Superintendent with me, at my office, early this afternoon? Sherlock, John and yourself shall also be present, but they do not need to be informed of that, nor of my name."

"Of course, Sir. Which office?"

"The one at MI6, please."

Sherlock smirked, as did Anthea. Most of Mycroft's offices were unpleasant and highly intimidating, but the one at MI6 was more of a bunker with a throne for the king, and Mycroft was certainly the king in this case. Mycroft turned to John.

"Dr Watson," he started. Seeing John start to protest the formal address, Mycroft raised his hand, "I am about to ask you to do something unethical."

John settled back and stared at Mycroft.

"For his own good, could you give Gregory something that would cause him to sleep through the afternoon?"

"You… you want me to drug him?"

"Yes. Please. If you would."

"And this would be for his own good how?"

"Nothing good could come of Gregory knowing about, nor certainly attending the meeting this afternoon. I shall - and if you do not believe me, you can, as I expect you to be there - inform him of every single word spoken at this meeting after we return home and he rises."

"I… I'm not sure if…"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, "Greg told me something the other day. He said he told you that he believed we would raze the country if something happened to him." Mycroft and Anthea nodded approvingly. "This is just a conversation and a small sleeping pill. Would you rather we set fire to London?"

John couldn't help himself. He laughed.

"Yeah, okay. Okay. I'll get him to take a pill."

*****

It was easy. John woke Greg just enough to give him two little pills, saying they were for his head. It was a safe bet that Lestrade would have a tension headache after the meeting that morning, and Greg was still groggy. When Mycroft came upstairs to change for his meeting a little later, Gregory was out cold. Mycroft left word with Austin that Lestrade was not to be disturbed, and the four of them set off to Mycroft's bunker office.

The three men waited in the office, Anthea sitting out front to await their guests. John didn't even ask what was expected of him this time, he knew by now the Holmeses would clue him in.

The Chief Constable was bristling when he arrived, the Chief Superintendent following quietly. Anthea showed them in, and stayed in the room after closing and locking the door.

"Ah," Mycroft murmured pleasantly, seated on his throne-like chair behind his huge mahogany desk. "Chief Constable."

Looking around for a chair to sit in and finding none, then taking note of not only that consulting detective fellow and his sidekick, but that assistant woman casually leaning against a wall and watching him, the Chief Constable's fury rose. The Chief Superintendent did his best to be invisible.

"What is the meaning of this? Who are you?"

"I believe you suspended our NSY liaison this morning for doing his job."

"What? What are you talking about! I said, who are you!"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade was instrumental in the physical and mental wellbeing of both myself and the invaluable young lady here," Mycroft purred again, and Anthea moved to stand at his shoulder. John swore the lighting had been specifically designed to highlight their visible bruises and wounds to most dramatic effect. "I hardly think a suspension would be the appropriate response to such efforts. I should have thought a commendation would be more in order."

The Chief Constable wavered, but wasn't giving up.

"Lestrade was out enjoying himself instead of working as he should be."

"Hardly," Mycroft replied gently and so politely. "Looking after me and my wellbeing? That could scarcely be called an enjoyment or a pleasure. The good Detective Inspector does suffer so to be an honest and good man, simply doing his job to the best of his abilities, and saving lives as he does so."

"Who are you?" the Chief Constable repeated, then looked at Sherlock and John. "And what are they doing here?"

"Didn't you know?" Mycroft purred again. "Mr Holmes and Dr Watson work closely with Detective Inspector Lestrade, and can vouch for his excellent character and behavior, if such tawdry assurances are truly needed. Or, of course, we could ask Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth of England for her opinion, since she granted him an audience not a week ago to personally recommend and thank him for his services these last few weeks to her country and citizens. Her Majesty was quite taken with the Detective Inspector."

The Chief Constable blanched and breathed heavily.

"I have pictures," he finally said.

"Ah, yes," Mycroft sighed, "I'd like those please and any information on how you came by them. The young lady will accompany you to retrieve them, along with any paperwork you've had done in error about this unfortunate misunderstanding and the Detective Inspector's suspension."

"You can't… you can't just… who are you?"

Mycroft rose from his throne, refusing to show any pain or weakness, standing straight even though his leg was killing him.

"You were called here to justify yourself to me, Chief Constable, and you knew you had no choice but to obey. Continue in that manner, and we shall have no more of this ugliness. And if I find that Detective Inspector Lestrade is given any hardship or grief over this or any of his previous actions, I shall not hesitate to have you here again. And I shall not be so pleasant next time."

Mycroft never raised his voice, never lost his smile, and that was what made it so very scary. The Chief Constable blanched further and swallowed. Anthea showed the two men to the door.

"Wait here for me, please," she said politely, and closed the door to Mycroft's office again. Mycroft sank back into his chair, grasping his knee. Sherlock snatched the bottle of painkillers from Mycroft's pocket and handed him two, while John knelt down and checked Mycroft's pulse. 

"Yeah, you're sitting here for a bit, Mycroft. Your heart's racing and you're starting to sweat. We'll wait until the pills have started working, then see if we can get you up." John hesitated a little, then looked Mycroft in the eyes. "Very impressive, though. I knew you could be a scary fucker, but this… Very impressive."

"Thank you, John," Mycroft's smile was more of a grimace due to the pain, "one does one's best."

"Well, good work."

"Will you be alright, my dear?" Mycroft turned to Anthea.

"Certainly, Sir. And Jacobs and Derrick are following me just in case. I shall see you at the house."

She left, and Sherlock stood behind his brother, soothing his hands over Mycroft's shoulders and chest until the pained breathing slowed. 

"Greg's not going to be happy."

"I know. But just like I have had to, he too shall have to accept that on occasion, you need to let others help you."

*****

"Mycroft?" Lestrade said sleepily, as he stumbled into the living room late that afternoon. They'd been back for an hour or two, and Mycroft and Anthea had been in the office until the time John had predicted Greg would wake up, then come to sit there with Sherlock and John.

"Yes, dearest? Did you sleep well?"

"Too well," Gregory grumbled. Then he looked at Mycroft and Anthea's blank faces, Sherlock's smirk, and John's guilty look, fell down onto the couch and sighed.

"What did you do?"

"I merely had a chat, Gregory."

"With the Chief Constable? Is that why I have a very apologetic e-mail here about a misunderstanding and me not being suspended?" Greg held up his phone.

"The Chief Constable saw the error of his ways? I always knew he was right for the post."

"Yeah, coming from you, that's not really a compliment, is it. Did you threaten him?"

"Not at all, my dearest Gregory. As I said, we merely had a chat. If you do not believe me, Anthea, Sherlock, John and the Chief Superintendent were present for every single second."

Lestrade looked around, then glared. 

"And I suppose you're going to tell me that those pills John gave me earlier weren't sleeping pills instead of paracetamol?"

"How could I know? I was not there. And I'm certain you wouldn't question John on medical matters."

"Yeah, right," Greg sighed. "I'm not mad right now, just sleepy. I might be mad later. But… thank you, all of you."

"Come now, Gregory," Mycroft purred once again, pulling Greg down to rest his head on Mycroft's good thigh. "Rest here a moment more. Everything shall be fine."

*****

Everything was not quite fine about an hour later when the Holmes parents arrived. Lestrade was still dozing, sleeping off the pills John had given him, and Anthea had been getting updates about the progress the car carrying the elder Holmeses was making. Mummy had vehemently protested when the car with two agents and Mr Davies had shown up, refusing to follow their orders, but Father Holmes, wallowing in misery since the disastrous attempt he'd made towards reconciliation, finally found his spine and put his foot down. His dear lady wife had grumbled the entire drive.

When Austin announced the car had arrived, Sherlock jumped up to go meet them at the door.

"Sherlock!" both John and Mycroft had called out at him, and John quickly scurried down the hall to catch up to the vindictive consulting detective, hoping to be able to keep things at least civilized. To his amazement, there really was no need.

"Father, Mother," Sherlock said quietly as his parents stood in the hallway, the footmen carrying in their luggage to put in their assigned room, far away from Mycroft and Sherlock's rooms.

"What…"

"Hush, dear!" Father Holmes interrupted his wife's intended outburst, then looked at his youngest son and his companion.

"Sherlock. Dr Watson. Something has happened?"

"Something has," Sherlock replied, calm in the face of his mother's fury and his father's concern. "You have been brought here for your safety."

"Did Mycroft…"

"My God, woman, if you will not be quiet right now and let me speak to my son, I shall wash my hands of you!" Father actually raised his voice this time, and everyone was quite impressed, especially Mrs Holmes, who shut her mouth and seemed to retreat despite not moving an inch.

"I apologize, Sherlock," Father turned to his son again. "Can you tell us anything of what has occurred? If not, we shall of course follow your directions and remain wherever you assign us."

Sherlock stared at his father, dismissing his mother entirely, then glanced to John. Taking yet another chance, John nodded.

"Follow me, and remain silent. There are people resting and recuperating."

Sherlock led the way to the living room after Austin had divested his parents of their coats. 

Mycroft heard more footsteps than he wished to hear approaching the living room, but with his injuries and Gregory still resting on his thigh, he could not move. He did turn his head to glare, though, and Anthea rose from her chair to cross her arms over her chest and present a formidable picture against the parents. Again, it was not really necessary. When Father stepped into the room, closely watched by Sherlock and John who had come in before him, they saw genuine remorse in his eyes, and when he took in the scene, genuine sorrow. Mother Holmes let out a gasp, but otherwise remained silent. Sherlock, slightly mollified by their reaction, pointed to the couch to have them seat themselves there.

For several minutes, there was utter silence. Anthea seated herself again. Austin quietly served drinks. Sherlock stood like an avenging Fury watching over Mycroft, Greg and Anthea, with John a diminutive but sturdy soldier at his side. Mycroft carded one hand ever so gently through the sleeping Gregory's hair, and let his parents' eyes roam over his injuries. John had insisted Mycroft changed into shorts again to ice his knee after his stunt in the office with the Chief Constable, and he hadn't bothered completely buttoning up his shirt, not expecting Sherlock to bring their parents in there, so he was far more on display than he'd ever wished to be. Their eyes crawled over his skin, then Anthea's, then back to him again.

Satisfied at last silence would be maintained, Sherlock settled on the floor between Mycroft and Anthea, reaching out to lightly touch both of them. With a nod from Mycroft, John kneeled next to Lestrade, and gently tapped his cheek, waking him.

"Greg? Greg! Time to wake up now."

Lestrade blinked his eyes, smiling when he saw his friend, then looking up at Mycroft and smiling even wider.

"Hi! Did I…"

Then he caught sight of the parents sitting there.

"Oh, now I'm mad."

"Gregory?" Mycroft called Lestrade's attention back to him. "There are things to be discussed. Can you wake up?"

Lestrade sat up gingerly, and Austin brought cold bottles of water to both him and Mycroft. John settled his back against the couch between Greg and Mycroft's legs, and the five of them presented a united front. Through each other, they were all touching one another, something that did not escape the elder Holmeses' attention. They took another few minutes.

"Okay," Greg finally said, "I'm awake."

"The information you are about to hear is classified," Anthea told the parents.

"Mycroft and Anthea were attacked. Obviously." Sherlock said.

"While Anthea is healing well, Mycroft's injuries are more serious, as you can see," John added.

"And the men who perpetrated this had Gregory under surveillance for insurance purposes, hoping to threaten him to use him as a pressure point. They discovered his friendship with both Sherlock and myself, and expected either one of us would succumb to their instructions in hopes of saving the Detective Inspector. However, before they could get to the blackmail part of their plan, Anthea and I were… shall we say… no longer there, and an operation was set in motion to apprehend the guilty parties. Once that was done, the blackmail plan involving Gregory became retaliation. They got to the Chief Constable, and there must have been a previous connection there." Mycroft looked apologetically at Gregory, who just nodded, having figured that much out already.

"There were certain photographs shown to Gregory as part of this scheme, and several of them were of us at your cottage."

Greg, much to Mycroft's satisfaction, understood a moment before Mummy did, judging by the timing of their gasps.

"Yes," Mycroft continued, mostly to explain it to Father, but it couldn't hurt now to say it aloud, "we think they know you're alive, and your connection to us. While we were able to bury - for want of a better description - it at the time of Sherlock's Fall, we now have to assume an evil organization knows Sherlock and I have living parents, and not only that, but exactly where they live as well. Hence your being here. I require maximum security for Gregory, Sherlock, Anthea and John, as well as my staff, and do not wish to have attentions divided by placing you in a separate safe house, necessitating various communications to check in on your safety that might be intercepted. So, Father, Mother, once again… welcome to my home."

Greg scrunched his eyes shut. He should have seen that, should have realized…

"Not your fault, Greg," Sherlock said, and strangely, the fact that it was Sherlock was even more reassuring than if it had been Mycroft. "It's quite impressive they found out about our connection anyway, let alone been able to follow you so diligently in the last few weeks."

"Do you think they know about…"

"…your true meaning to us?" Mycroft asked, finishing Gregory's question. "No. If they had, they would have either taken you as well, or started with you as a bargaining chip. And they certainly would have informed the Chief Constable, who would not have been able to hold his tongue about it, especially after I informed him Her Majesty commended you personally during your audience with her and was particularly fond of you."

As Greg was just gratefully thanking whatever deity would listen to him for that, Mother and Father Holmes stared. 

"Oh yes," Sherlock told them with glee, "we had an audience with Her Majesty the Queen just the other week. She was ever so thankful for our services, and seemed to take a particular shine to Greg and John. Her Majesty was of course very disappointed to hear you did not quite share her high opinion of our partners."

"Sherlock, that's enough," Mycroft said, but he was smiling and there was no reproach in his tone. "Now, on to business. Austin, could you please show our parents to their accommodations for the duration? And I'd just like to remind you, Mother, Father, about the rules. I trust I need not repeat them. But they certainly apply in this house."

Father rose and gestured his wife to stand up too. 

"Of course, Mycroft. And thank you for your hospitality in this trying time."

With a nod, Father took his leave to follow Austin, his wife trailing them out, and all of them released a small breath of relief at how that went.

*****

Dinner was served about an hour later, and Mycroft insisted on having it in the dining room. When Lestrade looked like he wanted to protest, John gently told him that it would actually be good for Mycroft to move around at least a little, as long as he kept all weight off his leg. Mycroft was installed at the head of the table, a second chair set next to him to rest his injured leg on. Greg and Anthea flanked him on one side, Sherlock and John on the other. When Austin showed the parents in, they took their seats next to Anthea and John. 

Of course, they had not been idle in that hour. Mycroft, Anthea and Sherlock had speculated with each new piece of information that came in answer to their discreet queries, and John and Lestrade had actually been able to chip in every now and then. When Greg tried to apologize again for not immediately realizing the significance of the pictures of the Holmes' cottage, he was quickly shot down.

At the time of Sherlock's fake funeral after the Fall, no one really had known Sherlock's parents were still living, so no one had been surprised they had not been there. Mycroft's connection to his little brother could not be hidden so well, and therefore he had been part of the charade. But both brothers had spent years cultivating their antagonistic relation in public, while hiding their contact with their parents, more for their safety than an actual strained connection with them at the time. That had only really surfaced after the events at Sherrinford.

During dinner, as they were chatting a little on other subjects, Anthea kept checking her phone, something that clearly irked the Holmes matriarch's sense of propriety, but under the circumstances she decided not to comment on it verbally. Halfway through the main course, Anthea hummed, got up, and showed Mycroft something on her phone. He read for a few moments, then shared a look with her. As she sat down again, Mycroft looked around the table and made a decision to speak openly for now.

"It seems our friend Zalurenko has an estranged ex-wife, a British citizen who moved back here several years ago after the divorce. It appears in the last few months she has taken up with a new lover."

"Connection?" Sherlock asked.

"He turns out to be a mercenary who did some work for our friend in the past."

"Interesting," Sherlock mused, leaning back in his seat. "Name?"

"Robert Wilson. Obviously fake."

Sherlock's eyes glazed over as he disappeared into his Mind Palace. The others continued eating, but remained silent as they waited. It only took a few minutes.

"Just shy of six feet tall, dark blue eyes, scar crossing right eyebrow, tattoo resembling a start burst on left inside wrist?"

Anthea hurriedly typed, and again they waited and ate, even Sherlock. Another buzz, and Anthea opened a message, then slid her phone across the table to Sherlock, who looked at it and shared it with Mycroft.

"How brilliantly stupid," Sherlock said. 

"My sweet?" 

"I saw him once."

"Where?" Lestrade asked.

"Just outside your office at the Yard actually."

That made all of them put down their cutlery and sit back.

"It was during the Case of the Raving Rabbit."

"What? You mean eight weeks ago, when you were dosed with that hallucinogenic gas?" John asked.

"Hmmm. I was still quite high then, but now that I examine the memory further, I saw that man sitting on one of your PC's desks, paying quite close attention to your office."

"Let me see," Lestrade said to Anthea, and she showed him the picture on her phone. "That's PC Danning's brother, Sherlock. Half brother, actually."

"That man may be somebody's brother, but he is certainly no familial relation of this PC Danning of yours."

Anthea typed again, then moments later showed Lestrade another picture.

"Yeah, that's Danning."

She turned to phone to Mycroft.

"I concur with Sherlock. No blood relation."

Lestrade sank back into his seat.

"Someone on my own team has been spying on me?"

"I doubt it," Sherlock said, his eyes flickering behind his closed eyelids as if examining images. "He was… afraid. I would say he is a victim in this too. He may have given information of your whereabouts and visitors, but I very much doubt he did it willingly."

"Anthea," Mycroft said, "can you find out what anyone may have on PC Danning for him to submit to such a scheme? Find out whether we need to protect him or persecute him."

"Already on it, Sir," she replied.

"How well do you know him, Gregory?"

Lestrade sighed.

"Danning's a good kid. Been in some trouble in his teenage years, but rose above it. He's new, I haven't had much contact with him personally, but Donovan likes him."

"Yes, and that's a glorious recommendation for anyone," Sherlock drawled sarcastically.

"Shut it, Sherlock. She's a good officer, no matter what you say."

"Sherlock," John asked after they'd been silent for a few moments, "why did you say it was brilliantly stupid?"

"Because if this man is indeed the one pressuring the Chief Constable to ruin Lestrade, which seems likely given his connection to our Russian friend and is most likely the reason behind his recent dalliance with the Russian's ex-wife, it is both brilliant and stupid to show himself at the station. Having been seen there before, he would not be regarded as a stranger and would therefore not draw notice to himself when he went to drop off threats or information for the dear Chief Constable; clever. Being there would however also increase the chance that he would run into me; stupid. As I recall, you all insisted I go to the hospital after that little episode with the gas, so I was not supposed to be there. Thankfully, I refused, thus running into him, thus seeing his interest in Lestrade and his so-called half brother's unease in his presence. He was just lucky I was slightly intoxicated from the gas at that time and therefore not paying my full attention."

"So you're saying that if you hadn't been high on gas that day, all this could have been avoided?" John asked with a teasing smile.

"It is entirely possible, John."

The smile dropped off John's face when he noticed Sherlock was serious, and Mycroft agreed with him.

"I think I've lost my appetite," Lestrade sighed. "That poor Danning kid. Why didn't he come to me?"

Mycroft also abandoned his plate, though Greg was happy to see it had at least been mostly emptied.

"Gregory, do not let your kind heart take over just yet. There is a possibility PC Danning was not coerced. Wait for confirmation, please. And even then, it is not your fault."

"I should know my team, My! I used to always make time to get to know the new members of my team personally! When did I stop doing that?"

Mycroft hoisted himself to his feet with his crutches, and took the few steps needed to be able to gently kiss the beloved silver hair on his Detective Inspector's head.

"When you became the most valued and therefore most overworked Inspector of New Scotland Yard, and your team grew out of proportions by necessity. You have more Sergeants, and therefore more Constables, under your direct command than many a DCI could even dream of, and yet you refuse the title. You need an assistant, a deputy. Now please, stop fretting, and help me to my study?"

Lestrade looked up, doubt still in his eyes.

"Please, Gregory?"

"Of course, My. Sorry."

"Do not be sorry, just keep me company."

After the others had watched the two men slowly make their way out of the dining room, Lestrade hovering but letting Mycroft move himself along, Sherlock called for Austin.

"Mr Sherlock?" the inscrutable man asked upon appearing.

"Something work related has come up, Austin," Sherlock told him, "and I'm afraid this is the end of dinner for us. We shall retire to my brother's office. Father, Mother, please feel free to continue dinner if you wish, we may be a while. Austin, please do ensure Mrs Weaver knows this is in no way a commentary on her food preparation skills, it was delicious as always."

"Certainly, Sir," Austin said with an almost imperceptible smile.

Then Sherlock, John and Anthea got up and followed Mycroft and Greg to the study, leaving the parents alone and contemplating.

*****

New information was slow in coming, and after several hours in Mycroft's study, they went to bed. After saying goodnight to Anthea, Mycroft hobbled down the hallway to his bedroom and shared a glance with his brother, who nodded. Sherlock quickly used the bathroom and changed in his own room, then came to fetch his doctor. John, understanding that on top of Mycroft's injuries and the threat to Lestrade, the parents being here was cause to seek comfort, still hesitated a little.

"What if your mother decides to sneak in again and throws another fit?"

Sherlock gave a small smile.

"She won't make it past the beginning of this hallway."

Mycroft and Lestrade had clearly been expecting them, and even Greg seemed relieved at the comfort of having all of them close together. It was a tighter fit than usual with the pillows cushioning and protecting Mycroft's leg, but they managed to settle in comfortably, and they all had several hours of peaceful sleep.

Lestrade woke when he heard voices down the hall, and his small movements, even when they were all the way on the other side of the bed, woke John as well. They looked at each other, then quietly got up. Opening the bedroom door just a tiny bit, they took turns quickly peeking out to see a robed Mrs Holmes facing off against a suited Austin at the other end of the hallway by the stairs.

"Mr Holmes has not yet risen, Mrs Holmes. I shall gladly lead you to the kitchen or any other appropriate room you may wish to visit. However, this hallway and its rooms are off limits to all guests."

"Guests? I am not a guest!"

"You are in this house, madam."

"I demand to see my son! He has been injured and as his mother I wish to know the extent of his wounds."

"I shall of course inform Mr Holmes of your heartfelt concern for his wellbeing. I shall do so immediately after he has risen, dressed, and is ready to receive messages."

"Messages?!"

"And naturally I shall also inform Mr Holmes of your respectful request to see him personally, and shall enquire whether Mr Holmes will have the time and opportunity to do so. If Mr Holmes' response is positive, I shall bring such glad tidings to you forthwith, along with the time and place Mr Holmes has chosen for your visit."

"If?! Visit?! Has he instructed you to be this rude to his very own mother?"

"I do not see any rudeness in my communications to you, Mrs Holmes, and have not been given any instructions. I am merely here to do my duties, and those first and foremost are to tend to Mr Holmes. Now, while I am of course always available to assist you with anything that does not contradict those duties, I must insist that for now we cease this conversation and relocate elsewhere. After you, Mrs Holmes."

They heard her huff and could almost feel her bristling, but then the sound of fabric rustling and soft footsteps told them Austin was indeed leading her away. Greg quietly closed the door, and they grinned at each other.

"That man is amazing," John said softly.

"He's one in a million."

"This is going to be difficult, isn't it? She's not going to give in."

The grins left both their faces.

"She'll have to, if she ever wants to see her sons again. I'll not bend on that."

"Yeah. Me neither."

"Are you two quite done eavesdropping and forging evil plans?" came Mycroft's sleepy voice from the bed.

They turned to see both brothers awake and watching them, then came back to bed, scooting in against their partners again. Upon request, they repeated as best they could remember the exchange between Austin and Mrs Holmes. Sherlock openly chuckled, and Mycroft looked very pleased. They talked a little more, and then Lestrade asked about the 'chat' Mycroft had had with the Chief Constable the previous day. This time, John set the scene and it was the brothers who repeated the conversation, but with their memory and acting talents, it was reenacted word for word, with all the proper inflections, Mycroft playing himself and Sherlock the Chief Constable.

Lestrade looked humbled and pleased at the same time.

"Wait a minute," he said finally, "are you telling me that he doesn't know who you are?"

"I'm quite certain he doesn't, dearest."

"But… Anthea was there too, right? And the Chief Super, and he knows Anthea, doesn't he?"

"Gregory, while your Chief Superintendent has seen and spoken to Anthea on a few occasions, he does not know her by that name, nor does he know exactly who she works for. He only knows that she has remit to dictate certain actions."

"Incredible," Lestrade said after a few moments. "Why would he show up then? Not knowing who he was supposed to meet or what for?"

"Would you ignore an official summons to MI6 Headquarters, Gregory? Even under those circumstances?"

"Well… I guess not, but… I'd certainly ask around. And let a few people know where I was going, you know, just in case I didn't come back."

The Holmes brothers glanced at each other, and then Sherlock sat up.

"Brilliant, Lestrade! Come John, time to leave! It's still early enough that the station will be empty, and we can hope he hasn't destroyed it yet!"

"Wait, what?" John asked, as Lestrade said: "What did I say that was brilliant?"

Sherlock huffed, carefully climbing out of the bed, and left it to Mycroft to explain.

"The Chief Constable would have quite possibly left a message of some kind, and most probably in his office. Just in case, as you said Gregory, he didn't come back."

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Now, come John! We must break into his office and find it before anyone arrives or he has the thought to get rid of it!"

John grinned at Sherlock's enthusiasm and got up, but looked over his shoulder before he left the room.

"You'll come rescue us if we're caught, right?"

"Of course, John," Mycroft assured him, "cavalry and solicitors and whatever else might be needed."

"Good to know," John smiled, "see you later, then!"

*****

Lestrade and Mycroft were the first to arrive in the morning room for breakfast. Austin calmly informed them of the encounter with Mrs Holmes earlier, and asked whether the parents were welcome for breakfast with them or should be served separately. Mycroft decided not to antagonize his mother further for now, and said breakfast together would be fine. Anthea arrived just as Austin was starting his report, and listened. While Austin was setting two more places for the Holmes parents, Mycroft quickly explained to Anthea what Sherlock and John were doing, and why.

"Oh, very good, Greg!" she said with a big smile. "We should have thought of that."

Lestrade blushed a little. In this company, it wasn't often he was praised for saying or doing something clever.

Mr and Mrs Holmes came in a few minutes later, Father wishing all a good morning, Mother remaining silent. With a single look, Mycroft knew his father was unaware of his wife's actions of that morning. After plating his breakfast choices, Father Holmes looked at the place settings, and sat down at the third place to Mycroft's left, leaving Sherlock and John's usual seats open. He eyed his wife with warning, and she finally sat down next to Anthea, at the lowest place to Mycroft's right.

They were halfway through a mostly quiet breakfast when there was noise and disturbance, and moments later Sherlock flounced in, John on his heels. Grinning broadly, Sherlock took a large, thick envelope from inside his coat and dropped it onto the table. Mycroft reached for it eagerly, but Greg snatched it away.

"Breakfast first. You too, Sherlock."

Huffing, but unable to resist that tone, Sherlock let Austin take his coat and John handed his over as well, then both of them selected their breakfast from the buffet and sat down to eat.

"Something else you should know," John said, after stuffing several forkfuls of egg and bacon into his mouth and swallowing them. "We went into your office, Greg, when we were done. We thought, if we were seen, we could claim we were picking something up for you there."

Lestrade nodded. He couldn't be too upset the two of them had broken into his office, it was a fairly regular occurrence, and a pretty good cover. 

"And then Sally Donovan came to speak to us."

"What? She did?" Greg couldn't mask his surprise.

"She asked after you. Said she'd heard a rumor."

Lestrade sat back.

"Apparently, she's quite friendly with one of the girls in the Chief Constable's office, and the girl had told her she'd been asked to prepare paperwork for your suspension yesterday."

"Damn it," Greg cursed.

"I don't think it's anything much to worry about," John soothed him. "The girl apparently never saw signed versions, and Sally was asking if we knew anything, not whether it was true you'd been suspended. And while I was talking to her, PC Danning came in. Sally noticed me looking at him, and asked if I knew him. I said I didn't remember ever seeing him before and asked if he was new, and if so, how he was doing. She said the same thing you did, that he was a good kid, but then she said he'd seemed a bit distracted and subdued lately. She wondered whether he was the right fit for Homicide, maybe the cases were getting to him already."

Lestrade let out a deep breath.

"I think you should call her. I don't think she knows anything, but she's guessed something's going on. And she's worried about you."

Greg smiled, and nodded. 

"Thanks, John. I'll call her later today." He looked at Mycroft. "If that's okay?"

Mycroft hesitated.

"We'll know more after we open that envelope. Which we can apparently only do after breakfast. So eat up, everyone."

The remainder of breakfast was hurried and silent, and once again, they left the Holmes parents sitting at the table while they retreated to Mycroft's office.

*****

The envelope held a veritable treasure trove of information. Sherlock had only glanced at the first few pages before deciding they'd found what they were looking for, back at the Yard, but now studied each page and photograph diligently. Its contents together with their own information proved the Chief Constable had been got at, PC Danning had been coerced, and Robert Wilson the perpetrator at the instigation of their Russian friend, communicating with Zalurenko through seemingly innocent messages sent to the Russian's oblivious ex-wife.

While Mycroft and Anthea set another operation in motion, Lestrade called Sally that afternoon.

"Yeah, hang on," she said immediately upon answering her phone.

Lestrade waited, and heard her moving, and doors closing. He smiled. Mycroft had made sure his phone call couldn't possibly be intercepted, but Sally didn't know that, and she was taking precautions of her own.

"Boss?" she finally asked. "What the hell is going on?"

"Breathe, Donovan," he said. "You busy?"

"Always."

"Too busy for me?"

"Never."

"There's a black car at the side entrance to the Yard. I'm sure you'll recognize the type. Get into it."

"Boss…"

"Do you trust me, Sally?"

She didn't even hesitate.

"You know I do, Greg."

"Thank you. Get in the car."

And then he hung up.

*****

It had been a long and strenuous discussion. Lestrade knew they needed someone other than him at the Yard, if they were to help Danning. The Chief Constable Greg couldn't care less about, but a promising young PC who had done nothing wrong but some youthful indiscretions, he couldn't let that happen. Sherlock opposed it out of sheer principle because it involved Donovan, Mycroft was hesitant on his brother's behalf, Anthea thought it was a great idea, and John pointed out that whatever had happened between Donovan and Sherlock in the past, she was a diligent officer, and completely loyal to Lestrade.

When neither Holmes brother could provide a deduction or logical reason she might betray the secret, they relented, grudgingly.

And that was how Sally Donovan found herself in the back of one of those luxurious black cars, being driven to a house full of Holmeses. It was probably best she didn't know that yet, or she might have chosen to force open the car door and throw herself into traffic.

*****

Mycroft would have much preferred to meet Sergeant Sally Donovan in one of his offices, dressed in one of his suits, dignified and intimidating. Unfortunately for him, he wrenched his bad knee as he tried to get up off the couch in his office without crutches, and it took not just pills but a shot from John's trusty medical bag and nearly half an hour of Greg's soothing attentions to settle him down enough to even be able to move again, let alone get dressed and be transported.

"Think of it this way," John said cheekily as he wrapped another icepack onto Mycroft's knee, "seeing you like this, she might take pity on you."

"Yes, thank you John, the very impression I wish to make."

Then, again, Mycroft was thwarted. When he decided upon the formal drawing room they'd met Dr Havers in, Gregory objected, and ordered them all to the patio, claiming the goal of the exercise was not to intimidate Sally, but to get her to help. Anthea agreed a more informal setting would assist with that, and even the Holmes parents were invited to attend the drinks and snacks that afternoon, though they were quietly admonished to remain civil and mostly silent.

When the car arrived, Greg met it at the front door.

"Sal," he said, giving into his paternal instincts towards his Sergeant, and pulling her into a short hug, seeing her trepidation.

"Should I be scared, Greg?" she asked, eyes wide as she took in the house and the car and him and the uniformed butler standing behind him.

Lestrade chuckled.

"Just mind your tongue, yeah? No arguing, no insults. I'm serious, Sally."

She squinted at him.

"So the Freak's here too?"

"And that's exactly what I mean. That's the last time you've ever called Sherlock that, Sally. Or anyone, really. Promise me now, and keep to it, or turn around and be none the wiser."

She studied him.

"I'm sorry," she finally said. "I promise, Boss."

Lestrade studied her right back, and judged her to be genuine.

"Alright. Come on."

Sally's eyes roamed over the paintings and antiques that occupied the hallways and rooms she was led through, and wondered how her boss could seem so comfortable in these surroundings. They finally reached a sort of sitting room, where the French windows were wide open and leading onto a patio in the sun but out of the breeze, where quiet conversation was taking place. Lestrade nodded at her once, and brought her out.

The Fre… Sherlock was reclining in a chair, drink in hand, almost as if he were posing for a picture, dressed in slacks and shirt that probably cost more than half her wardrobe. Next to him, Watson, unassuming as always, comfortable in shorts and a t-shirt and nibbling on a snack. He gave her a little wave. Then, Sherlock's brother, although she almost didn't recognize him out of his suits. The lack of suit was quickly explained though, as she took in his injuries at a glance. Badly damaged leg with icepacks on it, crutches at his side, bruising and cuts visible on face and arms. On the other side of the table, Sherlock's brother's - Mycroft, she reminded himself, the brother was called Mycroft - assistant. Sally had seen her before, at crime scenes with Sherlock's brother - Mycroft, she thought again - or picking up Lestrade from his office before he'd disappear for a few days. She too was covered in cuts and bruises. And next to her, two elderly folks.

"Sergeant Donovan," Mycroft said pleasantly, "please, sit."

Lestrade went to sit next to Mycroft and gestured Sally into the chair next to his.

"May we offer you a drink?" Mycroft continued.

She hesitated and glanced at Lestrade. Though it was getting to late afternoon and this was definitely not the office, Greg was her boss and she was still on duty. He smiled at her and picked up his own glass of whiskey, taking a large sip.

"Better have one, Sally. I doubt you'll be going back to the office today. And don't worry, that's been sorted."

She nodded and requested a gin & tonic from the stoically waiting butler. When it arrived, just moments later, she took a healthy sip.

"Sergeant," Mycroft said and gestured towards the two elderly people, "may I introduce you to our parents, Mr and Mrs Holmes? Father, Mother, this is Gregory's colleague, Sergeant Sally Donovan." They exchanged nods. "And I believe you know Anthea, though you have, as far as I know, never been formally introduced." The two women exchanged nods as well. Sally took another sip and regained some of her usual courage.

"So what's going on? Why am I here? And where is 'here' anyway?"

Lestrade grinned and reached out his hand to take Mycroft's, bringing it to his lips for a kiss, then turned back to her.

"Welcome to our home, Sally."

She stared, and they could all see the thoughts tumbling and racing in her mind. She looked from Lestrade and Mycroft to Sherlock and John, to Anthea, to the parents, around the bits of the garden and house visible from where she sat, back to Lestrade again. She took another sip.

"Right," she said, "okay then. How long?"

Lestrade looked very pleased, and Mycroft gave a small smile. Anthea and John smiled too. Sherlock reluctantly admitted she was processing fast, and though he didn't say it out loud, the others could read it on him.

"Ten years, give or take," Greg answered her.

Her eyes widened and she sipped again, wishing she had a bigger glass. Then she saw the butler standing by, and realized she'd probably get a refill as soon as she finished this one.

"Right," she said again. "Your wife?"

"Divorced before things happened between me and Mycroft."

"Who knows?"

Again Lestrade looked pleased, as did Mycroft. 

"The ones you see here. And a very select other few."

Suddenly her eyes twinkled and she gave him a grin.

"You sneaky bastard! You never even hinted!"

He laughed, then became serious again.

"For good reason, Sally."

"Which is why you are here, Sergeant Donovan. We are going to tell you some things, and we are going to trust that you will keep those things to yourself, not just for now, but forever."

The grin slid off her face as Mycroft spoke, and she looked back at him steadily. 

"I am loyal to Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mr Holmes. I've heard a rumor, and I can only think that my being here has something to do with that. If keeping what you're going to tell me secret is to protect Lestrade, you can trust me."

Mycroft gave her one of those small smiles again.

"So he's been telling me, Sergeant Donovan."

Austin served everyone fresh drinks, then retreated. And then, sitting in the sunshine surrounded by Holmeses, Sally was told part of what had been going on the last few days, the parts that had to do with the Chief Constable and PC Danning, and some of the circumstances. No personal things, obviously. It was already hard enough for Mycroft that now yet another person knew about how important Gregory was to him. 

Sally listened, asked questions which were short and to the point, and mostly received answers, even a few times from Sherlock, without his usual derision or scorn. It reminded her of how Sherlock had been at the crime scene she'd called them in on in the middle of the night over a week ago, when the four of them showed up and Sherlock had been a bit subdued, talking to Lestrade quietly and then asking to be taken home. She suddenly understood two things; one, that Lestrade got to experience Sherlock like this far more often, and that was the source of his patience and acceptance of Sherlock's normally more exuberant behavior; and two, that when she'd made that phone call, the four of them had been here, close together, in what was apparently Lestrade's home.

She was appalled at the suggestion that the Chief Constable was crooked, but never doubted it for a second. She felt sad hearing about Danning, she really did like the kid and thought he held promise. When they stopped speaking, she remained silent for a while.

"What are you thinking, Sally?" Lestrade asked, munching on another of those delicious snacks she'd eventually also partaken of.

"I want to help. Not just you, but Danning too. I think he's in trouble, Boss. I should've… I should've made more time for him, checked in on him more. Maybe he would've felt comfortable and safe enough to come to me then."

Lestrade's look was both commiserating and proud, and then he turned to Mycroft, almost pleading. Mycroft sighed.

"Yes, fine, I agree PC Danning is a victim as well and should be assisted. I also believe this is further proof that your team should be revised, Gregory. If even Sergeant Donovan feels she has not had enough opportunity to check in with her PCs, it's clear you are all overtaxed, leading to problems like this. If you were to accept the DCI position, you could have two DIs working for you, with their own Sergeants and PCs. The team does not change, but you would have more opportunity to oversee."

"I don't want to sit behind a desk all day, My! I've told you this."

"And I don't wish to work with anyone but Lestrade!" Sherlock interjected.

Mycroft's face turned cold, and suddenly Sally saw the Mycroft she was used to, seeing the suit and umbrella even though they weren't there.

"And I've told you both before, that does not have to change!" His voice was quiet and restrained, and very commanding. He turned to Sherlock. "You are the world's only Consulting Detective. Do you really think that if I can arrange that, I cannot arrange for you to work with Gregory, no matter his position? And you, Gregory, do you truly doubt I could not have you do whatever you wanted, even in the position of a Detective Chief Inspector?"

"Puppet Master Mycroft," Mrs Holmes murmured into her drink.

Sally chilled from the sudden ice that flowed from Lestrade, Sherlock, John and Anthea towards Mrs Holmes. Oh yeah, there was definitely more going on here than just a minor government official trying to get his way.

"Be quiet, Mother," Sherlock bit out.

Sally shivered, then shivered even more when she found Mycroft's gaze fixed upon her. 

"Sergeant Donovan? Any thoughts on that?"

She hesitated, and looked away from him to look at Lestrade, who was staring down into his drink. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"I go where Lestrade goes," she finally said defiantly. "I want what he wants. And I'll be his Sergeant forever if he lets me."

That made Greg look up.

"No!" he said. "No, Sally! You… you're gonna be a DI yourself! You're not meant to be a Sergeant forever! You're going to lead your own team, and make a name for yourself!"

She smiled, and it was odd to see that particular smile, because it was both kind and rueful, not at all like her snarky self. She glanced between him and Sherlock, and then spoke softly.

"And how am I going to do that, Greg? I was the one who went after Sherlock during that whole Moriarty thing, and don't think that hasn't come back to bite me in the ass since then." She looked to Sherlock again. "And rightly so. I've accepted it, and I'm fine with it. Just as your star has both risen and fallen with your involvement with Sherlock, so has mine. Nothing we can do about it now."

No one had expected that kind of honesty from her, that kind of insight. They were all silent for a while, until finally Sherlock huffed. 

"I suppose I could work with… Sally. Once in a while. Or Dimmock, sometimes. He's not completely stupid. But only if Lestrade is not available!"

All faces turned to Lestrade, who was biting his lips and looking down. When he finally raised his eyes, his face was so guilty their hearts all went out to him. 

"I was so angry with you," he said to Sally, "but only for a bit. You were doing your job, and you didn't know Sherlock like I know him. I didn't fully realize that others hadn't… I… I should've known you were still being held back by that. I'm sorry."

He turned to Mycroft, but Mycroft spoke before Gregory could continue.

"Your team is perhaps a matter for another time. We have other things to concern ourselves with right now. We have a PC to save and a Chief Constable to deal with."

Sherlock grinned wolfishly.

"Oh, gladly!"

"Any thoughts, brother mine?"

"Several. It depends however on whether the Chief Constable should remain in his position and now in your pocket, or whether a new one shall be appointed. With a little prompting, Sally can handle PC Danning's situation."

And just like that, they were discussing plans. Sally learned many things that day. Sherlock Holmes was not actually quite the insensitive high-functioning sociopath he'd always claimed to be. Mycroft Holmes was not a cold government robot only caring for his troublesome little brother, and was far more powerful than she had ever imagined, his fingers in pies she hadn't realized would even feature on his radar. John Watson was scary, not at all the cuddly little lapdog they'd always taken him for; his suggestions tended to be quite brutal. Anthea was doubly scary, so efficient and logical. And Lestrade… he was both loved and respected. Not the way she and most of his team loved and respected him, but on a far, far deeper level. Mycroft Holmes and even Sherlock Holmes would do anything for him. John Watson and Anthea would too. And when it came to his safety, even the Holmes parents pitched in a few times while they were all talking, clearly caring for Lestrade's wellbeing, something that startled the brothers at first, but was not dismissed outright.

After an hour or so of talking and planning, they had a strategy they could all live with. The butler came to refresh the drinks again, and Lestrade whispered something to him. When Austin returned, he slipped a deck of cards to Greg. When Lestrade held it up with a questioning eyebrow, there were laughs and smiles, and Sherlock exclaimed 'Yes! Let's play!' as if it were a treat.

They quickly settled on which game to play, and Sally marveled at the choice. It was a silly and almost childish game, nothing like what she thought the Holmes brothers would condescend to, but they seemed particularly eager. Even the parents joined in. Greg shuffled the cards and dealt.

"Sergeant Donovan? Would you care to stay for dinner?"

She startled. After all those revelations, and making plans, and now the card game, it was easy to forget she was supposed to be on duty. She glanced at Lestrade, who smiled back at her. 

"As Gregory's friend, you will be most welcome."

"Of… of course," she finally managed to get out. "I'd be honored."

*****

Sally sipped another drink. She'd paced herself with the alcohol intake when she realized exactly what she was there for, but now held another luscious gin & tonic. She didn't quite know which gin and which tonic, but it was a damn sight more smooth than anything she'd ever been served before, and a pleasure to let slip down her throat.

Only a few minutes earlier, the butler had arrived to announce fifteen minutes to dinner, and the others had excused themselves to go freshen up. It had been something her grandparents had said when they were still alive, but she guessed she should have known something like that would be part of the Holmeses. There had been a tiny urge to laugh derisively, but most of her just let it go in favor of going through all she'd learned today. Things were definitely not as she had always thought they were.

The butler arrived again and carried her half empty glass on a tray for her as he brought her to an honest to God dining room. Once again she goggled at the paintings and statues they passed on the way, and had to remind herself that this was where her boss lived. Unbelievable. 

As she was brought into room, she quickly looked around. Ostentatious, certainly, but warmer and more friendly than she would have expected. The gleaming table, easily able to seat two dozen, was set for eight people, and Mycroft was already seated at the top, his injured leg resting on an extra chair. Lestrade stood next to him, talking quietly. Sherlock and Watson were chattering and grinning together a few feet away. Anthea came over to join Sally.

She noticed all of them had changed clothes, nothing too fancy, but still a step up from the shorts most of the men had been wearing earlier. Sally chatted with Anthea, trying not to feel too uncomfortable, until the Holmes parents arrived. They were in full dress, the mother in a gown and the father a suit. Sally had the uncanny feeling that normally Mycroft and Sherlock would have done the same, and the fact they hadn't now was more of a rebellion than a gesture to Sally. Now that they were all assembled, they went to their seats, and Sally was surprised to find herself seated between Anthea and Mrs Holmes. She didn't know much about etiquette, but she'd like to think she'd picked up a thing or two from the regency romances she secretly liked to read and watch on telly. Like that you didn't seat all the ladies together. And more significantly, that you seated the most important people closest to the host.

Mycroft was the king, that much was clear in everything, no matter that he wasn't wearing one of his bespoke suits at the moment. Lestrade at his right hand had the place of honor, which, with everything she'd been learning this afternoon, was certainly fitting. Sherlock directly on Mycroft's left was surprising. Not that Sally thought there was no connection between them, Mycroft's interference in his little brother's affairs over the years had proven otherwise, but she had bought into the sniping and bickering. She'd heard the same during the card game this afternoon, but realized now the tone of it had been quite different. So yeah, Sherlock was important to Mycroft. John by his side was only to be expected.

Anthea was next to Lestrade, where Sally would have expected her in Sherlock's place. And then Sally, and Mother Holmes, while Father Holmes sat next to John. Both of them at the lowest places at the table, and the mother even lower than the father, where tradition would dictate parents to be seated at the highest out of respect. Yes, there was definitely more going on here than she would have ever thought, if she had let herself think about such things.

*****

Over the next two hours, Sally Donovan found herself being treated to one of the best meals she'd ever enjoyed in her life so far. The food was amazing, served by a stern woman and a smiling girl; the drink that paired it was incredible, small glasses of fine wines she didn't even want to guess at the cost; but most of all, the company. If her colleagues could see her now, she'd be branded a traitor.

Mycroft Holmes turned out to be quite the charming host. He asked questions and made small talk, and made sure to include her in the conversation no matter where it went. Lestrade was laughing and telling stories, as he often did on pub nights, but he was far more open now than she'd ever seen him. It was clear he felt safe here, protected and… loved. Sherlock and John Watson displayed their usual dynamic, Sherlock talking and Watson admiring him, but where usually she would have found it irritating, she now found it endearing. Sherlock still snarked, no question about that, but it definitely lacked his normal bite. She found she quite liked him like this. 

Anthea was quite cheeky, not just with Lestrade - which she could've understood, as he was almost always open to such things - but with all of them. She taunted Sherlock, and teased Mycroft, Lestrade and Watson. Even Father Holmes got his digs in, but his were carefully voiced and constructed, and Sally got the feeling he was trying to find his way into the dynamic the others had. The only silent one was Mrs Holmes, and Sally could almost feel the chill radiating from the woman.

When dinner evolved into drinks after, Sally started to worry. Not only did she have an early day tomorrow, but with all she'd been told, she felt like she should maintain some distance for everyone's safety.

"Sergeant Donovan," Mycroft purred in that lethal voice of his, "it would be my pleasure to offer you accommodations for the night, and of course transportation to the Yard in the morning."

She hesitated, and knew that he saw it.

"You can't go home now, Sally," Lestrade said. "Too much to drink."

"I'll have to take a cab anyway," she replied with a smile.

"I'm afraid not, Sergeant," Mycroft said. "That would be almost as damning as having you delivered to the Yard in my car in the morning in front of all your colleagues and friends."

Anthea linked an arm through Sally's and pulled her off the couch. 

"Come on," Anthea said, "the room next to my suite is all set up for you. I've already had some suitable clothes picked out for you for tomorrow, I'll make sure you wake up in time, and you can take Greg's car to the Yard. It'll help with our plans with Danning. You can take him aside and honestly say you spent the night with Lestrade having talked about the rumor you heard, and draw him in."

Sally gave in and nodded, letting Anthea pull her along out of the room and up the stairs. To protect Danning, she needed to get close to him, and the plan was that she would convince him that since he was new on the team, he was the only one she could trust with the rumors she'd heard of Lestrade's suspension and the reasons for that. Other than that, Sally wouldn't have a major part to play, her job was to stay close to Danning while the Holmeses and Anthea closed the operation on Robert Wilson and the Chief Constable, so she could honestly testify Danning had not been involved in any of that.

Anthea delivered her to a large guest room, showing her the adjoining bathroom, clothes for the morning and sleepwear for the night. Then she left Sally with another of those cheeky grins, winking and saying she'd be right next door if Sally needed anything. Smiling and shaking her head, Sally allowed herself to sink into the luxury of the room and bathroom, and within moments of sliding between the soft sheets, fell into a deep and restful sleep.

*****

Despite the drinks of the previous evening and the sinfully comfortable bed, Sally woke early, before sunrise. She lay there for a while, just thinking. The Chief Constable's betrayal was sickening, and even more so since it was about Lestrade. She wouldn't like to see any of her colleagues betrayed like that, but Lestrade held a special place in her, she wasn't ashamed to admit that to herself. They'd been friends as well as colleagues, and even after the whole Fall debacle and her role in it, he took her back and supported her, despite being angry with her, she'd sensed that. 

Mycroft Holmes was not at all as she'd thought he was. She hadn't known much about him other than that he was powerful, scary and smart, and she'd disliked him purely on the basis of being a Holmes. But he was actually quite charming and witty, and unlike his brother was clearly capable of normal human interactions. Though that was perhaps not really fair either. Sherlock had definitely shown a different side of himself, and she did realize that an awful lot of trust had been placed in her just for her to see that. She'd actually liked him at times the previous night. 

She didn't quite know what to think of Watson and Anthea and how they fit into things. She'd always liked Watson well enough, despite his unfortunate fascination with Sherlock Holmes, and hadn't formed an opinion on Anthea other than that she worked for Mycroft Holmes and therefore couldn't be exactly right. But those ideas had been blown out of the water. She'd have to wait and see. The parents, too. God, Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft Holmes actually had parents, they hadn't just been formed out of clay and breathed to life by some mischievous demigod or something. It was mind boggling.

And then there was Lestrade and Mycroft. As in, the two of them together. She'd never even suspected he was seeing anyone, had wondered about it sometimes, but the team had gotten quite used to Sherlock blurting out things about their personal lives whenever he was annoyed, and he'd never said anything about Lestrade. She understood why, now. But now that she knew, and they'd let her in at least a little, she'd seen the signs all last night. Mycroft absolutely doted on her boss, was completely smitten. Though part of her still thought she'd never understand how anyone could willingly spend so much time with a Holmes, there was no denying that Greg was loved. And not just by Mycroft, but by Sherlock too. 

As she was thinking about that, she heard voices drifting up to her room. Surely it was far too early for anyone else to be up? Curious, Sally got out of bed and snuck down the hallway to the stairs, where she found Anthea standing on the landing. Anthea smiled and put a finger to her lips, gesturing Sally over.

"Mrs Holmes, are we doing this again?"

Sally recognized the voice of the butler, Austin.

"Don't you ever sleep?" The older woman's voice was decidedly snippy.

"Not as much as I'd like to, madam, when there are guests in the house who might wish to disturb Mr Holmes."

"Who's disturbing him? I merely wish to look in on my son to ensure he's getting his rest after his injury."

"I can assure you Mr Holmes is getting all the rest he needs, and will do so even more without attempted early morning visits."

"I haven't had the chance to speak to my son privately yet."

"And you shall not have that chance right now, as it is still frightfully early, and as you so rightly pointed out, Mr Holmes needs his rest after his injury."

"You said you would arrange for our conversation."

"I believe I told you I would inform Mr Holmes you wished to speak to him, and I did. Unfortunately, as I'm certain you can understand, Mr Holmes has been rather busy with threats made against Mr Lestrade and has therefore not had the opportunity to spare the time for what I'm sure would be an unpleasant conversation with you, madam. Now please, once again, allow me to remind you that this hallway and its rooms are not accessible to guests, and let me escort you elsewhere."

Sally's eyes widened at the tone and words, but Anthea sniggered quietly. After they'd heard Austin and Mrs Holmes retreat, Anthea gestured for Sally to follow her, and Sally found herself in the suite next to her room. Anthea fell onto the bed, laughing.

"What did you think of that?" she finally asked Sally.

"I didn't think butlers spoke like that to members of the family."

"They usually don't, but Mrs Holmes has been a bit… hostile lately."

"I thought I felt some frostbite from the cold seeping into my side at dinner last night."

Anthea laughed again, and Sally couldn't help but chuckle. But then, her mind working, she drew a conclusion she didn't like.

"Mrs Holmes doesn't like Lestrade? At least not as a partner for Mycroft?"

Anthea was suddenly very serious.

"Too many words there, Sally. The correct phrasing would be 'Mrs Holmes doesn't like Mycroft'."

Sally stared at the woman, then sat down on the bed next to her.

"But he's her son."

"And she's a vindictive woman who needs someone to blame for everything she doesn't like, and along came Mycroft. Of course, it doesn't help that she knows that Sherlock, her favorite, loves Mycroft far more than he does her."

Anthea turned to Sally and stared at her meaningfully.

"And I never said any of this."

More puzzle pieces fell into place for Sally. The silence and coldness from Mrs Holmes the previous day. The way her sons had basically ignored her. The attempts of the father to make conversation and fit in. Swallowing, Sally felt a little sad for Mycroft, and even for Sherlock, and for Lestrade at having to deal with something like that.

"And why did you - not that you did - tell me that?"

"Because I need you to understand that this ploy against Lestrade is painful on so many more levels than just professionally. I'm not diminishing the threat to Lestrade, but ultimately, it's a threat against Mycroft. And he's already being hurt from every other side. Has been all his life. He has his brother, he has me, he has his staff. But he was never happy until he had Greg."

Again, Sally took a moment to work through that. Then she looked back at Anthea.

"You love him. Mycroft, I mean."

"Very much. But not romantically. I leave that to Greg."

Sally smiled, then just out of curiosity, posed another question.

"Who do you love romantically, then?"

Anthea grinned impishly.

"No one yet. But you never know. I'm quite flexible."

And she leaned in and kissed Sally's cheek, slowly and languidly. Then she grinned again and shucked Sally off the bed.

"Come on! Off with you! Get showered and dressed, and then we'll head to the kitchen for breakfast. We'll see to it your clothes are cleaned and returned to you."

*****

When Sally came back out of her room some twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in the fresh clothes Anthea had left for her the night before, she found the woman herself leaning against the wall in the hallway, engrossed in her phone. Sally blushed a little. Anthea was dressed now, no longer in the camisole and silk robe she'd worn earlier, but the kiss she'd placed on her cheek - which seemed quite innocent but really wasn't - had Sally flustered. Anthea just looked up and smiled, and brought Sally down to the kitchen.

Lestrade, in t-shirt and sleep trousers and with bare feet, was flipping pancakes under the watchful eyes and laughing instructions from Mrs Weaver and Amanda, while Mycroft sat propped up on two barstools, smiling at his lover's back. The ladies were busying themselves with cutting fruit, scrambling eggs, making toast and many more things, setting everything out on the huge kitchen counter. As Sally and Anthea seated themselves, Amanda provided them with the requested coffee and tea, and a few minutes later, they were joined by Sherlock and John, both still in sleepwear and robes. When everything was ready, Mrs Weaver pressed a little button, and Sally could hear a bell ringing softly further into the house, clearly a signal, as moments later the staff also came into the kitchen.

Sally hadn't realized that beside Austin, Mrs Weaver and Amanda, who she'd seen at dinner the previous night, there were two manservants and two maids in the house. But where she might have bristled with scorn normally at such an outdated and in her view demeaning thing, these people happily wished everyone a good morning as they sat down, were introduced to Sally, and then chatted and laughed not just amongst themselves, but with Greg and John and Anthea, and even Mycroft and Sherlock, while they ate.

'He has his brother, he has me, he has his staff', Anthea had said, and it was only now that Sally fully understood that Mycroft's staff was on par. They weren't loyal because they were being paid, they were simply loyal. So loyal apparently, that Mycroft and Anthea had no compunction about repeating in front of them what her tasks in the plan were for the day. 

When done with breakfast, not realizing that the gentlemen of the house had moved up their timetable to an earlier breakfast both for her sake and to be able to avoid the parents later, Lestrade grasped her arm as she was about to take her leave.

"You sure about this, Sally? You don't have to, you know."

She chuckled.

"You have no idea, do you, Lestrade?"

At his confused look, her chuckle receded into a small but kind smile.

"I, and many others, would do so much more for you." She looked around the crowded kitchen, ending with a pointed look at Mycroft. "And for your family."

*****

After Sally Donovan had left and breakfast had finished, the four men of the house had retreated to the main living room. Anthea said her goodbyes to go to the office.

Sherlock grumbled, and John was trying to soothe him while Mycroft and Greg were mostly just amused.

"I don't like it," Sherlock pouted.

"I know you don't," John replied, caressing the chocolate curls that were lying in his lap, "but you were really good about Sally being here, both yesterday and this morning. I'm very proud of you."

"I am not a child, John. You need not bribe me with affection."

"What if I want to?"

"Want to what?"

"Well, not bribe you, but… just show you affection?"

Sherlock's eyes slitted closed at a particularly well executed stroke through his curls.

"That… would not be unwelcome."

The other three hid grins as Sherlock settled even more comfortably into John's lap, a very satisfied smile on his face.

They were still there over an hour later, Mycroft working on his laptop, Lestrade reading the papers and John browsing on his phone while he petted Sherlock, when there was a soft knock on the open door. They looked up to find Father Holmes standing there.

"May I come in?"

"Of course, Father," Mycroft replied, "please join us."

"Thank you."

He came in and settled in a chair, taking in the tranquil scene of his sons and their partners sharing time and space together in the cheery room, sunlight and a warm summer breeze drifting in through the wide open French windows.

"Have you breakfasted, Father?"

"Yes, we've just finished. You?"

"We ate earlier, since Sergeant Donovan had to leave for work. It wouldn't do to let her eat by herself."

"Of course. So everything is going according to plan then?"

"So far. We've only just started. It will be a couple of days yet before everything is in place."

The old man nodded, but looked like something was bothering him.

"What is it, Father?" Mycroft finally asked.

"I…" the man looked pained, "I don't know how be delicate about this."

All four men tensed, and Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up.

"Best to speak your mind then, Mr Holmes," Greg said warily.

There were a few more moments of silence before the old man spoke.

"Has your mother been bothering you?" Upon Sherlock's snort, Father held up a hand. "I don't mean with her silent disapproval of everything since we arrived here, nor everything before that. I mean… I spoke to her about her behavior and attitude and told her that I wasn't going to stand for it anymore, that I wasn't going to lose my sons and their partners because of her. She promised me she wouldn't say or do anything. Well, she's been quiet alright, but… I woke up early this morning and she wasn't in bed. Did she do anything?"

They exchanged a few glances, and Father sank back into his seat, a defeated look on his face.

"She tried to invade our bedrooms both yesterday and this morning, Mr Holmes," Greg finally answered. Lestrade and John had heard that morning's exchange between Mrs Holmes and Austin too, same as the day before, having expected it and waking up at the sound of voices in the hall. And of course Austin reported it to Mycroft. "She didn't succeed, though. Austin was there both times and sent her away."

Father nodded, then looked away sadly and bit his lips. Austin, timing it perfectly, came in with a large tray carrying tea, coffee and biscuits, and served it to those who wished it before retreating again.

"I just don't understand it, understand her." Father laughed a little. "Never did, really. I'm just a foolish man, who fell in love with a brilliant woman. When I introduced her to my parents, my mother said she was more a Holmes than I ever could be. Back then I thought she meant that as approval. Now I'm not so sure. Looking back, I know my parents' marriage wasn't a happy one, but that was all I knew, and when our own marriage started to be like that, I thought… I thought that was just what happened."

He finally looked at them again, looked at Mycroft.

"I was so happy when you were born, so proud. I knew she didn't quite feel the same, but I thought it was a combination of postpartum depression and her giving up her work. I thought it would get better. I was so proud of you. You were so smart and grown up. When Sherlock was born, and then Eurus, you were already such a little man, looking after them. I felt she was quite hard on you sometimes, but you were so like her, your mind I mean, I thought she was just pushing you, pushing your intelligence." He shook his head. "I am such a foolish man."

They all sipped at their drinks for a bit, not wanting to interrupt.

"After Eurus was… when she went away with your Uncle Rudy, I thought it was better for a while. And when your mother started pushing you again, I thought it was because she missed our daughter. Even I knew that Eurus was exceptional, and I thought she wanted to push you to her level. I realize now that by then I had already given up. A foolish man with a brilliant wife, and children who all surpassed her in intelligence. It never once occurred to me that she resented you, as Sherlock said that morning at breakfast at the cottage."

He blinked away the moisture gathering in his eyes.

"It broke my heart when Sherlock said that and I realized it was true."

John and Lestrade felt for the man. They knew what it was like to be the 'stupid' one in the relationship, and could understand at least to a degree how he must have felt all those years. Back at the cottage, when they left, they'd lumped both parents together in their anger over the behavior towards Mycroft and Sherlock, but even then, it had mainly been Mrs Holmes they'd taken offense with. Mr Holmes' crime was not standing up for his sons.

Mycroft and Sherlock remained detached. Though on an intellectual level Mycroft could appreciate the words and explanation, it did not erase the many long years he'd been resented and left on his own. Sherlock felt the same, not for himself, but on behalf of his beloved big brother.

"I also don't understand what's going on now, this sudden vendetta against your relationships. She's never been against same sex relationships as far as I know. She's always liked you, Greg, as have I. She always spoke highly of you after your visits or calls, said many times what a wonderful man you were and how lucky Mycroft was to have you. Though I realize now she might have meant that differently than I thought."

He brooded a little.

"I don't know you that well, John," he continued, "but I hope you'll give me a chance to get to know you better. You seem like a good man, and if you make Sherlock happy, that makes me happy." He looked at them all again. "I know I can never be forgiven for my… neglect, but I hope you'll believe me when I say I am very proud of you. Of all of you. Good men, one and all."

He cleared his throat, trying to clear away the emotion that had nearly choked off those last words, and rose to take his leave, having said his piece.

"Father," Mycroft stopped him. "Stay. Sit with us a while."

"Yes," Sherlock added. "We may get an update any time. You can help us with our plans if things change."

The other three, the 'normal' ones, looked at the Holmes brothers with pride, gratitude and love.

*****

During the remainder of the morning, the five of them sat together in the living room. Mycroft worked, receiving updates from Anthea both on the operation against Robert Wilson and the Chief Constable and on other matters. Lestrade grabbed some cold case files from his study that he'd been through a dozen times already, and went through them again, hoping this time something would stand out and grab his attention. He stayed in touch with Sally, who reported she'd made contact with Danning according to plan and was keeping him close.

John and Sherlock went through their e-mails and requests for help, Sherlock dismissing most of them out of hand, solving a few without even looking at them, and while John was sending replies, Sherlock looked over Greg's shoulder at the cold cases he'd refused as being boring before. He solved one and gave new leads on three others by the time lunch came around. Lestrade made copious notes to follow up on later.

And through it all, they talked. Not just informing each other on the updates they received, or the cases they were working, but simply chatter. John and Greg talked about the football match that would be played that night and they wanted to watch. Mycroft mentioned a symphony that would be played at the Opera House in a few days' time and lamented he would not be able to go and sit through it with his leg in its current state, telling them about the last time he'd heard it and how much the music had moved him. Greg promised they could go next time. Sherlock outlined four new experiments he wanted to set up, and was peeved when Mycroft gave him the results for one of them, thus negating the necessity for him actually conducting it. Father listened and smiled, and as the morning and chatter continued, joined in more and more.

They took lunch in the kitchen with the staff as usual, and Mr Holmes was pleased when he was invited along. The staff, a little wary at first, quickly warmed to him when the gentlemen of the house openly chatted with him. Mrs Holmes, Austin reported, had taken to her bed and had requested luncheon to be served to her there.

After lunch, Father Holmes decided to stroll along the grounds. Lestrade took Mycroft upstairs for a nap. Sherlock and John went to the pool.

*****

"John?"

"Hmmm?" John replied, opening one eye to look at Sherlock sitting across from him in the hot tub.

After swimming quite a few laps, they'd drifted on the air beds a little before settling into the tub. John caught a flash of color at the side of the tub, and opened his other eye as well. Those were Sherlock's shorts. Sherlock was naked.

"You said this morning that you wanted to show me affection."

"Didn't I pet your hair for a couple of hours? My fingers are still tingling."

"I was hoping for more."

"Sherlock…"

"John," Sherlock whispered as he moved his naked body over to John, and basically straddled his lap. Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to John's. This kiss was nothing like the few kisses they had exchanged before. It was fire and passion, and John was helpless against it. His hands came up to stroke along Sherlock's sides and back, pulling him closer. Before long, they were rutting against each other whilst kissing, John's shorts the only thing between them. 

"John," Sherlock breathed again. "You're not going to refuse me again, are you? You want this? Want me?"

"Yesss!" John hissed. "Yes, dammit, I want you!"

Sherlock smirked with glee, and kissed John again.

"Get naked then."

And then, to John's dismay, Sherlock got out of the tub. Struggling to get his mind back on track, John watched naked Sherlock grab one of the air beds and put it on the tiled floor next to the pool, then lie down on it on his back, his long, thin body and his rampant arousal on display.

"Come on, John… I'm waiting…"

"Jesus," John breathed. He got out of the tub and dropped his shorts, showing Sherlock exactly how much he wanted him, then stood and smiled, regaining his confidence. So Sherlock thought he could just lie there and that would be enough for John? Not going to happen. If they were going to do this, John was in charge.

John dropped to his knees on the end of the air bed, between Sherlock's legs, making Sherlock bounce a little. They both giggled at that. But the giggling soon subsided when John started kissing his way up Sherlock's body. He started at Sherlock's feet, covered both legs, kissed his hips, up his chest until he finally reached those luscious lips and his body covered Sherlock's head to toe. Well, almost. He was a little bit shorter than the infuriating detective, after all.

Then they were kissing and groping again. John knew he wasn't ready for taking Sherlock, and they had no supplies here anyway, but he had capable hands, and knew how to bring pleasure with those. He loved kissing, touching and holding Sherlock, and that was how he was going to do this. To his deep enjoyment, Sherlock was very responsive to his kisses and his touch, moaning and pleading. After teasing Sherlock like that for a while, John lined them up. He hadn't been quite prepared for the feeling of his erection brushing against Sherlock's, and gasped with pleasure at the sensation before wrapping a hand around them both.

It didn't take long. They were both overly excited, finally being together like this, and John's strong hand provided excellent friction. They spilled moments after each other, and slumped together on the air bed. John began to chuckle, then stilled again and looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock's face was pure bliss. John had seen him high a few times, and this certainly reminded him of that. He waited, part curious, part worried, until Sherlock finally opened his eyes.

"I knew it," Sherlock whispered. "I knew you'd be perfect."

John finally relaxed, and curled around Sherlock's body to hold every part of him close.

*****

Upstairs, in the master bedroom, the mood was slightly different. Lestrade had taken Mycroft to bed, yes, fully intending for him to take a nap. But first, he needed to talk.

"How are you feeling about what your father said?"

"Gregory… must we?"

"It was quite emotional, My. I just want to be sure you're okay."

"I am fine."

"Mycroft…"

"Gregory! I am fine!"

"Okay, but, Mycroft…"

"I don't know, alright?! I don't know. No words are going to make up for everything. Understanding doesn't make it hurt any less. I. Don't. Know."

And if those weren't the scariest words ever to come out of Mycroft Holmes' mouth, Greg would eat his shorts. Mycroft not knowing something. 

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry," Lestrade soothed his lover, cradling him in his arms. "I'm sorry, My. I won't ask you again."

Immediately, Mycroft's anger left him and he worried.

"I don't want that."

"Don't want what? Tell me, and I won't do it again. Please."

Mycroft turned carefully until they were lying face to face, and he could caress Lestrade's face with his fingers.

"I don't want you to stop asking. You ask because you care. I don't want you to stop caring."

Gregory choked up, and Mycroft worried he'd said something wrong.

"Oh, My… I could never stop caring. Never. I love you, and I always will."

"Hold me?"

"Forever. Every single day for the rest of my life."

*****

Nothing much new came in for the rest of the day. Anthea and Sally both checked in a few more times, then reported they were going home to their own flats. Mrs Holmes showed up for dinner, but remained silent and disapproving, now of her husband too as he chatted with their sons and their partners. 

Sherlock slept in John's bed that night. For a moment, John had worried Sherlock might want to take their affections further than they had gone that afternoon at the pool, but Sherlock simply curled into him and fell asleep.

It was four more days until they finally reached a resolution.

*****

Mycroft became ever more fidgety at the long time he'd spent away from his office, and on the second day persuaded Anthea and Gregory to let him go there. Some might have seen his hobbling on his crutches as a weakness, but most saw it as strength of character that he showed up even as wounded as he was. Anthea and his home office were quite efficient, but Mycroft still got more work done in a day actually being at the office than he would in several days at home. 

With Mycroft back at his office, Lestrade had Anthea end his secondment, and returned to the Yard. No one asked him outright, but it was clear from the looks and whispers that rumors had been flying around about him during his absence. That he showed up with new leads on several cold cases was a surprise, but his Sergeants and PCs gladly followed up on them. On the third day, Lestrade was heading back to his office from the break room, having gotten himself a fresh cup of dreadful coffee, and ran into the Chief Constable crossing the work floor. The two men faced each other as everyone watched. They held their gasps until the Chief Constable had disappeared, but no one could misinterpret the fact that at the end of their staring contest, it had been the Chief Constable who had stepped aside to let Lestrade pass.

There was a murder on the second day, and even though it didn't seem very interesting, Lestrade called in Sherlock and John, who came without protest. Sherlock snarked as much as he always did, but instead of simply blurting out the solution, gave hints, watching and waiting for the officers to catch on. Sally was quick. She kept Danning by her side, and the two of them were sent off to investigate the clues they'd gathered from Sherlock's remarks.

John spent the time on his blog, and worrying about Sherlock. After their encounter by the pool, he had expected Sherlock to escalate their physical intimacy, but he hadn't. They kissed and touched and held, and Sherlock spent every night in John's bed, but nothing more than that happened. He worried Sherlock had lied when he'd said it was perfect. He worried he hadn't quieted Sherlock's mind as the consulting detective had expected him to. He worried he wasn't up to snuff, after all. But every night, Sherlock curled around him in bed, and fell asleep so gently and peacefully John couldn't even mind. He worried, yes, but he loved it too.

Anthea worked the operation and several other things, and no matter how much she loved running things on her own, it was a relief and a pleasure to have Mycroft back at the office. Robert Wilson was in her sights, and he would not escape her. With Mycroft there, things ran more smoothly, not necessarily because she needed him there, but because the threat of him there made people fall in line that much easier. She still worried about him though, and sent Lestrade regular updates about Mycroft's intake of tea and biscuits.

Father Holmes had taken to long strolls around the grounds. They gave him time to think and, quite frankly, time away from his wife. He hated what he'd done to his sons, even though he hadn't meant to, but seeing now how much he'd hurt them made him very sad and uneasy. He couldn't be happier his sons had found people who loved them, Greg and John, Anthea, even the staff. It was clear to him their love for his boys far outshone what he had offered them. He was a foolish man, indeed.

Mrs Holmes had taken to her bed, but when no one, not even her husband, came to check on her, she abandoned that plan. She joined them for dinner, and bristled quietly about their easy chatter, hating it and loving it at the same time. She lay awake at night, next to her peacefully sleeping husband, thinking about what had gone wrong. There was anger, even fury, at… well, at everything! Her career, her daughter, her hopes for grandchildren! Nothing seemed to work out the way she wanted! But she was brilliant, as her husband still often told her, and so she started thinking. Thinking about what happened all those years ago. Thinking having a child shouldn't have stopped her from her work, even back then. Thinking about things Eurus had done and said, mostly about Sherlock. Thinking they were quite disturbing. Thinking about Gregory Lestrade and John Watson. Thinking about visiting her daughter. Thinking about her boys. She was… thinking.

*****

Frustrated with the lack of progress, Robert Wilson finally forced a confrontation with the Chief Constable. The Chief had clearly been spooked by something, hadn't carried out the instructions to suspend Gregory Lestrade and end his career, and had refused to tell him exactly why. The Danning kid too had been different, and he was always hanging around that Sergeant Donovan now. Lestrade had returned to his office and was in charge of investigations again. And that blasted Sherlock Holmes was hanging around the Yard and working with Lestrade and his eyes seemed to be everywhere. Robert Wilson was getting desperate.

There had been no further instructions from Zalurenko, which was very worrying. The first time Robert's attempt to contact his employer and friend went unanswered, he had immediately set in motion the plan regarding Lestrade, confident that Zalurenko would turn up again after that. But nothing happened. Robert had contacted Danning, telling him to find out what was going on and report back to him, but Danning claimed he'd been dragged along by Sally Donovan to crime scenes and interviews and had barely spent any time in the office, and therefore couldn't report much of anything. His surveillance on the boy showed he told the truth about that. 

Worried, but still determined to carry out the work Zalurenko had paid him so handsomely for, Robert Wilson decided to push.

Robert Wilson was a shrewd man, and a proud man. He realized by now that Zalurenko was probably lost, maybe even already dead. It wasn't really about him anymore, it was about Robert himself. He hated that he had apparently lost control of his two puppets, the Chief and Danning, while he'd been so sure he had them firmly in his pockets, and that he hadn't known it until now. He despised Sherlock Holmes, everyone thinking he was so clever, lauding him again in public even after Moriarty had proven Sherlock could be got at. And he detested Mycroft Holmes. Robert hadn't been present when Zalurenko had taken the elder Holmes and his lovely assistant, but Zalurenko had sent him pictures, and really, Mycroft Holmes couldn't be that smart if Zalurenko could take him and torture him. And that pretty assistant, well, Robert really wouldn't mind playing with her far more than his employer had done. 

Then there was Lestrade. An aging cop with nothing special going for him except a pretty head of hair. Why would people like Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes care about him? He was just a tool, someone they kept around for when they needed a police presence, like that police captain in The Godfather whose presence supposedly protected The Turk, but was killed by Michael Corleone without a second's thought. Robert Wilson smiled as he saw the scene play out in his mind. He could do that. Meet Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade in some restaurant and shoot them in the head like Michael Corleone had done, and then take over the empire. He laughed. 

Like so many before him, and a few after him, Robert Wilson dismissed Dr John Watson as a bit player, barely acknowledging him.

*****

It went down hard and fast.

Robert was enjoying himself, seeing the fear and the sweat on both the Chief Constable's and Danning's faces when they showed up at the warehouse. His puppets were his again, scared and trembling, even more so when the red dots of the sniper's rifles held by his two friends up in the rafters appeared on their chests, and while the Chief Constable was quiet, Robert found himself getting a very tiny measure of admiration for the Danning kid, whose shaking voice asked him questions about why he was doing this, what he wanted, what he'd done. On a power high, thinking of Michael Corleone, Robert spoke. In his revelry, he didn't notice the red dots waver for a second.

"I've heard quite enough."

The cool, calm voice cut through in the middle of Robert's sentence.

"Quite tedious, indeed, brother mine," a bored baritone concurred.

Startled and furious, Robert turned to find both Holmes brothers, Lestrade and that awkward little doctor fellow standing behind him. How dare they?! How dare they interrupt him, both in his endeavor and his speech! He was the one in charge here!

"Say goodbye to your friends!" he cried, pointing to the Chief Constable and the PC. But the shots never came. Instead, the overhead lights switched on. Turning to where he'd instructed his friends to be, Robert Wilson saw that pretty little assistant holding a sniper rifle, his friend subdued on the overpass by a team of tactical troops. Turning once again, he saw a similar scene on the other side, his other friend held by two armed guards. He heard rapid footsteps approaching, voices on radios.

Seeing red and feeling lost, Robert Wilson reached for his waistband.

The shout of 'Gun!' was drowned out by the noise of rapid fire. 

Through some now waning strength, Robert opened his eyes to take in the scene. The pretty assistant and the trooper on the other side had their rifles pointed at him, watching him through their scopes. But the short little doctor had a handgun drawn on him, the barrel smoking.

Then the pain set in.

*****

"Sherlock?!"

"I'm fine, John."

"Greg? Mycroft?"

"He did not reach his gun, Dr Watson. Excellent aim, by the way."

"No one else is hurt?"

"None but the target, John."

*****

"Well, Mr Wilson. I'm so glad you are awake."

Robert Wilson, struggling through the haze of drugs in his system, focussed on the voice.

"I'm afraid you may still lose the leg. Three bullets can do a large amount of damage. Dr Watson aimed to wound and incapacitate. I fear my assistant and the squad leader were less concerned with permanent injury. I suggest you sleep some more. You and I shall be speaking with each other again soon."

*****

Dinner that night was both quiet and short. Everyone in the house knew something major had occurred, and they were giving the gentlemen of the house time and space, even the parents. That night, four emotionally exhausted men found each other in the master bedroom, and slept.

*****

Over the next couple of days, rumors flew around the Yard like wildfire. No one was told exactly what had happened, but almost everyone showed up when PC Danning was given an award for bravery above and beyond the call of duty. When he quietly put in for a transfer, no one was really surprised. They knew he'd been part of sting, had worn a wire and gotten the perpetrator to confess to certain things on tape. As he was leaving, Danning said he'd had enough of the dangers of the big city, and had been offered a station at Causton, in Midsomer with a DCI called Barnaby, and that he hoped it would be a bit less murderous there. His former London team carefully held in their giggles until he'd left, then fell about laughing.

*****

"Ah, Chief Constable. You're here again."

The king once again sat in his throne, no other seats available. No one else was around either, this time.

"What do you want from me this time, Sir?"

The Chief Constable's tone was decidedly different now, deferring and almost humble.

"The upcoming hearing," Mycroft said. 

"You want me to resign."

"I have no wish to deprive the London Met of its Chief Constable. Considering the circumstances, your decisions and your care for your people have been quite admirable. Certainly more caring than your predecessor. I believe the hearing will turn out quite in your favor. I have some concerns, though."

"Lestrade."

"Amongst others."

"Holmes. And his friend, Dr Watson."

"Them too."

The Chief Constable sighed and slumped.

"What do you want me to do?"

Mycroft smiled, and it wasn't pleasant.

"Whatever they or I want. Here's my card. Call me if something concerns you."

The Chief Constable took the card, and saw only a number, still no name.

"Am I ever going to know who you are?"

"I think perhaps it would be better if you didn't. Don't try."

The Chief Constable nodded, resigned.

"Alright. Thank you, I guess."

"I assure you, Chief Constable," Mycroft purred, "being in debt to me is far better than being in debt to some… criminal."

"Sure. Whatever you say. I'll…"

"Wait for my call?"

*****

The doctors managed to save Robert Wilson's leg, but warned him he would never regain full functionality of it again. When he was released from the private medical facility and brought to his new prison home, he understood this was where he would spent the rest of his days. Mycroft Holmes came to talk to him a few times, but it soon became clear that Wilson didn't have any further information or useful contacts for Mycroft to exploit. The visits tapered off, and once he was let out of his cell to join the general population of the prison for meal times, he knew he would probably never see the man again.

He also realized two other things. This was not your standard prison. And the continuous pain in his leg was not the worst thing that could have happened to him. It was on his third day amongst the other prisoners that he encountered his boss and friend Zalurenko, and found the man's mind had been broken. Robert Wilson shuddered, and did his best to avoid the man from then on.

*****

On the second night after the showdown in the warehouse, Sherlock and John were in bed in the blue room, Sherlock half draped over John and John's fingers trailing up and down Sherlock's spine.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm?"

"Are we going to go back to Baker Street soon?"

Sherlock tensed.

"Do you want to leave?"

John hesitated. Many things had been discussed over the past few days, and that had left John with questions. 

"Not necessarily. That's not how I meant it. You and Mycroft and Anthea made it clear you're still not certain all threats have been eliminated, so it will be safer to stay here. For us, as well as your parents. Part of me wants to take you back to Baker Street to keep your mother away from you, but another part doesn't want to leave Mycroft and Greg here alone with them. And I want everyone to be as safe as possible. But I don't want you to have stress over having to face your mother every day either."

"I'm not leaving my brother alone with her. You can go back to Baker Street if you want."

John tangled his fingers into the back of Sherlock's hair and pulled, gently, until Sherlock was facing him, and John quickly pressed a kiss to his lips.

"I'm not leaving you. I'm never leaving you."

Sherlock smiled and kissed him back, then they resumed their former position.

"How long do you think it will be? Before you're sure it's safe?"

"Weeks at least." Sherlock sighed. "Do you feel uncomfortable here, John? Stifled? Is it too crowded? Too many people? Too much Mycroft?"

John chuckled.

"Not too long ago, I would have thought that you would be the one having a problem with that. But I'm learning. You like it here, don't you? Like having your brother close."

Sherlock gave a small nod against John's chest.

"Actually, so do I. Him and Greg. Anthea. The staff. All your friends."

"They're your friends, too."

"Not yet. But they could be. I like them. I miss Mrs Hudson, though."

Sherlock smiled.

"Yeah, good old Hudders. I'll talk to Mycroft about inviting her."

"That'd be nice."

They were silent for a while.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm?"

"Did you really like it when we had sex by the pool?"

This time, it was Sherlock who chuckled.

"Couldn't you tell?"

"Well, I thought so, but…"

"But what?"

"You haven't… wanted anything more since then."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

"And you are worried about that."

"A little. A lot. That maybe it wasn't what you wanted after all?"

Sherlock stayed silent, and John waited anxiously.

"John… I've told you before, I'm never going to have a normal relationship. I liked the sex, I liked it very much. But that is mainly my body. And you know how I am about eating and sleeping when I'm on a case."

"So… we're never going to have sex whilst on a case?"

Sherlock tried to pull back, but John immediately tightened his arm around him, keeping him in place, knowing that if he let Sherlock withdraw now, something would be lost. Sherlock hesitated.

"I could… I could make myself available to you if you want."

"No! Christ, no!" John exclaimed, horrified, thinking back to what Greg had told him about Mycroft. "Jesus," he muttered, "you and your brother…"

When Sherlock tensed even more, John went back to stroking his fingers up and down the man's spine.

"Don't ever do that, Sherlock. Don't ever have sex if you don't want to, just because you think I do."

"But you are clearly dissatisfied…"

"No, I'm not! I like this too, being here with you like this. I like it very much! I was just wondering. But now you've explained, and actually, I understand what you said and should have thought of that myself."

"You are not… disappointed?"

"No, never. Honestly, I was just wondering. And a bit worried."

Sherlock sighed.

"My brother and Lestrade have sex on average twice a week."

John almost choked.

"I don't think I need to know that!"

Sherlock chuckled.

"I'm not telling you that to make you uncomfortable. Lestrade has a healthy sexual appetite, especially for a man his age. Even when his marriage was crumbling, he and his ex-wife had intercourse almost daily."

"More information I don't need! And how do you know that, anyway? I thought you met him just when he was getting ready to divorce his wife."

"Oh, please, John. Of course I know."

"Let me guess… from the creases in his shirt?"

"Something like that. The point is, you are more like Greg, and I am more like Mycroft."

"Sherlock, I hadn't had sex in months before all this happened."

"No, you didn't have sex with someone else before all this happened. You pleasure yourself in the shower almost every morning."

John's cheeks were burning.

"So does Lestrade."

"Oh God," John whimpered.

"Both Mycroft and I can see that. I would have thought you realized that by now. Mycroft and I, we don't have those same urges. Our brains tell our bodies what to do, not the other way around. When our brains are aroused, our bodies become aroused, and then we want to have sex."

"Do you have to include your brother in this explanation?" John whined.

"Not necessarily. However, I do enjoy teasing you."

For a moment, John was flabbergasted. Then he started to laugh.

"You bastard!"

"My mother would certainly take offense at that, John."

John shuddered.

"Promise me something, Sherlock. I can take it if you bring up Mycroft and Greg, but don't ever again mention your mother or your father for that matter while we're discussing sex."

Sherlock chuckled.

"I promise."

"So the point of all this is…?"

"Do what Greg does to Mycroft. Arouse my mind, and you'll arouse my body. It won't happen every time, but..."

"And how do I do that?"

"I'm not quite certain yet. Lestrade does it to Mycroft by surprising him, with something he says or does that Mycroft wasn't expecting. Mycroft sees it as a sign of Greg's intelligence, which is what arouses Mycroft more than anything. I have become aroused on occasion when you were Dr Watson or Captain Watson instead of John Watson. When you take charge of a situation. Also, as in the hot tub, when you are simply being very comfortable in your own skin."

"So you like it when I'm in charge?"

"Of a situation, John, not of me. That comes too close to the things Irene likes, and as I said, that doesn't do it for me."

"Okay, can we leave Irene Adler out of our sex talk too? I don't like having even a whisper of her in our bed."

"You're jealous."

"Damn right I am. You pined over her for months."

"Your jealousy is arousing too."

"Yeah?"

"Very," Sherlock said, and then crawled up over John's body and kissed him deeply. John couldn't help but respond, and when Sherlock started kissing down his chest and belly to pull down John's sleep trousers and take him into his mouth, John moaned and wiggled and sighed, letting Sherlock do whatever he wanted. Sherlock seemed to really be enjoying himself, and John watched with wide eyes the entire time, until he spilled into Sherlock's mouth and was unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

John was still trying to regain his breath when Sherlock crawled back up and, after a short hesitation, unsure of his welcome, kissed him again. John happily latched onto his lover's mouth, not minding the taste of himself on Sherlock's lips and tongue at all. He rolled them over and determinedly made his way down Sherlock's body.

"John, you don't have to. This is new for you."

"And it'll always be new if I don't start now."

Sherlock caressed John's hair as the doctor lowered his trousers and licked him, before taking him into his mouth. It was more difficult than John had imagined, his mouth so full. But Sherlock was on edge already, and before John's jaw could really start to ache, Sherlock came. The sensation and taste was odd, but John was a trooper, and swallowed as best he could. As Sherlock pulled him up and curled around him again, John felt oddly proud of himself. Then he caught the look of pure bliss on Sherlock's face, and pride and joy melted into deep affection that had him holding his lover for the rest of the night while they slept.

*****

Now that Mycroft and Greg had gone back to work, breakfast had been brought forward from nine to seven. On the third day after the warehouse incident, Father Holmes shuffled into the morning room in his dressing gown to take breakfast with his sons and their partners. 

"Father, the staff would be happy to provide you with breakfast at a more leisurely time."

"Of course, Mycroft. But… I'd like to spend some time with you, all of you. If you don't mind, that is."

"We don't mind at all, Mr Holmes," Greg said. "You're welcome at this table."

Sherlock and John nodded, and for the rest of the week, Father Holmes woke early to eat and chat with his sons. 

Because of his injuries, Mycroft was sent home at a reasonable hour every day by Anthea. Sometimes she joined him, sometimes she stayed behind. Lestrade spent normal office hours at work doing paperwork, no new terrible cases coming up that week, and briefed with Sally Donovan several times. Now that he was aware of it, he saw the cool manner with which the other officers still treated her, but he also saw that while they may not like her for her part in the Fall, they still respected her. And her whispered role in the thing with Danning and Lestrade's singling her out helped along her reputation.

John took several shifts at the surgery when Sarah called, and Sherlock made sure to be out of the house when John was gone, except for one morning which he spent with the bees. It was time for harvesting some of the honey, and Mycroft had called in the retired beekeeper who looked after the hives when Sherlock wasn't there, and Sherlock decided to help him. Father came upon them during his morning stroll, and sat out of the way and listened and watched his younger son talking and laughing with the old man in an honest and open way, as they harvested honey and spoke of setting up a new hive with a fresh queen.

Mother Holmes remained a mostly unseen presence in the house, only joining them for dinner, and no one knew she had been watching and listening and thinking.

Mycroft healed well, and after two more check ups with John and Doctor Havers, was pronounced fit. The cut was fully healed, his knee reduced to its normal size, and he could walk around without the brace or any pain more quickly then any of them had expected. 

Sherlock took a private case that had him and John running around London for four days, before bringing in Lestrade and his team to arrest the culprits. 

In the evenings, they either worked or played games. Sherlock went through the cold case files of Lestrade's he'd dismissed before, helping to skyrocket Lestrade's closure rate, and when they came up, worked two new murders with him as well; Mycroft and Anthea worked on the possible threats remaining after Zalurenko's play, John spent time at the surgery or on his blog. Father was just happy to be allowed to spend time with them, and Mother started to remain after dinner, joining them in their quiet evenings of either work or game. She still didn't say much, but the ice was starting to melt.

*****

"Have you got any plans for the weekend, Sally?" Lestrade asked on a Wednesday, several weeks after the incident in the warehouse.

"Just washing my hair, Boss," she said with a smile. "Why?"

"Then you and I," Lestrade said with a grin, "are taking a long weekend."

"But I'm on the roster."

"Not anymore. You're off from Thursday evening until Tuesday morning. If you want."

She stared at him.

"And what should I be doing during that long weekend?"

"Nothing you don't want to. But I'd hoped you might want to spend it at my home."

"Why?"

Lestrade sighed, and looked at her sadly.

"Because you're my friend as well as my colleague, and we've got something to celebrate."

She double checked the door the Lestrade's office was closed, and sat down on one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"The Wilson case?" she asked. Lestrade had given her very brief updates during the last few weeks. He nodded.

"Looks like it's definitively closed now. No more threats."

She relaxed back into her chair.

"Thank God."

"Thank Mycroft and Anthea and Sherlock. Which is what this is about. We want to celebrate with everyone who was involved, and that means you too."

"And the Chief Constable?" she laughed. He grinned.

"We're leaving him off the guest list."

He looked at her seriously, but hopefully.

"Want to come? You're not obliged to. I know a house full of Holmeses can be a bit much."

She thought about it for a few moments, then nodded.

"I'm honestly grateful for all you've done for me, Greg. If you're sure no one would mind, I'd love to come."

He grinned again and pulled an embossed envelope from underneath a stack of paperwork, handing it to her.

"Bring a bag with enough clothes for a long weekend tomorrow. You'll come with me after shift tomorrow evening, and have a fun weekend, okay?"

She opened the envelope and pulled out a luxurious card, lined with gold embellishments, containing a meticulously handwritten invitation for a 'country weekend', signed by Mycroft Holmes.

"Is this serious?" she asked. "It looks like something from the Queen."

"Don't joke about that," Lestrade smiled, and she grinned back, seeing the humor in his eyes.

*****

Sally was nervous all the next day, the bag at her feet under her desk reminding her every time she accidentally touched it that she would be going with Lestrade into a den full of Holmeses again. Both of them were grateful they weren't called out that day, and at the end of their shift, around four in the afternoon, she followed Lestrade to the black car waiting at the side entrance to the Yard. The driver took her bag, and opened the door for her. She fidgeted as she sat down next to Lestrade.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked.

"I'm sure. Are you sure? I can still ask Nick to drop you off at your place, if you want. But you can leave any time you like."

She relaxed.

"No, it's fine. It's just… I don't even know what a 'country weekend' is, and… well, with Sherlock and his brother…"

She'd been really good about not calling Sherlock a Freak, and Greg appreciated it. The two of them had reached a far more cordial relationship over the past few weeks, Sally minding her tongue and actually listening for a change, and Sherlock teaching more than lecturing. 

"Sal… If at any time, you don't feel comfortable and want to go home, or want some time to yourself, or even don't like something that's said or done, tell me, okay? This honestly is supposed to be a celebration. I know they take a little bit to get used to, but this is not in any way to make you uncomfortable. You played a big part with Danning, and they just want to show they're grateful for that, right?"

"Okay, Greg."

The remainder of the short drive was silent, and Sally Donovan was once again brought into a house of Holmeses, this time with the intention to stay several days.

*****

"Snap!" she heard Sherlock's gleeful exclamation as they reached the end of the hallway, a footman carrying up her bag behind her, followed by John Watson's cheerful chuckle.

They looked up as Greg and Sally entered the room, and Watson gave her a cheery smile.

"Hey, Sally! Want to play?"

"Sure," she said, and as she kneeled down between the two men at the coffee table, the butler - Austin, she remembered - offered to get her a drink, which she accepted.

Watson retrieved the several decks of cards and shuffled them, dealing them round, and Austin brought her one of those superb gin & tonics. The parents were in the room too, the mother reading and the father watching, and Lestrade smiled at her before he went upstairs. By the time Lestrade returned, freshly showered and changed, she was to the bottom of her glass and they were in their seventh game, and Sherlock was admonishing her for not counting the cards, while Watson was admonishing Sherlock for counting the cards. It was decidedly fun.

"Why don't you go shower and change, Sally. You've got the same room as last time."

She nodded and went upstairs, where she found her bag had been unpacked and her clothes neatly put away, the bathroom holding not only her own toiletries she'd packed, but several luxurious items for the shower and bath. She'd definitely have to check those out later. After a quick shower to rinse the workday off her skin, she followed the example she'd seen from Lestrade and Watson, and changed into jeans and a top. When she returned downstairs, they'd exchanged the cards for Snakes & Ladders, and they were all playing, Lestrade and the parents too. She grinned at the childishness of it, and sipped a fresh drink provided by the butler as she watched them laugh and play. Mrs Holmes appeared decidedly less chilly than last time, and the father was laughing and chattering right along with the others. After John won and Sherlock pouted, they started over, including Sally in the new game.

"Well, I'm glad to see the Yard's finest hard at work," Mycroft said as he and Anthea came into the room about half an hour later. She glanced up at him with a grin before realizing that this was Mycroft Holmes she was grinning at. But he had a big smile on his face that softened as he looked back at her, and his voice was gentle as he spoke again.

"I'm very pleased you accepted the invitation, Sergeant Donovan. We're very thankful for your role in the operation."

"I was happy to do it, Mr Holmes. Thank you for inviting me. And please, call me Sally."

"I shall, if you will consent to call me Mycroft."

"Are we playing or making meaningless small talk?" Sherlock sniped.

"Can't you do both at the same time, my sweet? I thought your vast intellect would facilitate multitasking."

"How very droll, My. Go wash off the stench of government and mentally prepare to be bested by someone of superior intelligence."

"Such a precious little boy," Anthea purred, ruffling Sherlock's curls with her fingers. He glared at her, but they all saw the smile tugging at his lips.

*****

When Mycroft and Anthea returned, they too had dressed casually, which for Mycroft apparently meant bespoke trousers and shirt, but he'd left off the waistcoat and tie and had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. They played another round, Lestrade winning that one, and rolled around laughing when John said Sherlock had warned them they would be bested by someone of superior intelligence. Lestrade preened, then blushed when Mycroft kissed him softly and said: "A superior man indeed."

Austin called them in for dinner, and once again, Mrs Weaver and Amanda served up four courses of the most delicious food and wine. They spoke mostly of the operation, Mycroft and Anthea explaining what had happened in the last few weeks and how they had concluded the threat had passed. Sally learned more details about the Chief Constable and his attempted threat against Lestrade, and what had been behind it all. When the business talk was over, they were enjoying dessert, and John asked what the plans for the celebration weekend were.

"Well," Mycroft said, "I thought we could all do with some exercise, fresh air, relaxation and good food. The weather promises to be excellent, not too warm but certainly summer, and now that Anthea and I have both been declared fit, I hoped we could go to the farm tomorrow?"

Sherlock, John and Anthea nodded enthusiastically, but Greg seemed cautious.

"Are you sure, My? I know your leg's better, but won't that be too strenuous? John?"

John shrugged.

"I see no problem with it. As long as you're honest, Mycroft. As soon as you start feeling it, you need to tell me. Maybe not as long as last time? Ease into it a little?"

"I promise, John. I promise to you too, Gregory."

"Alright then," Lestrade acquiesced. "I'd love to. It's always fun there."

"Father? Mother? Would you care to join us? I asked Dennis to prepare a buggy for you."

Father Holmes smiled. 

"It's been a while, but I think I still know how to ride a buggy. What do you say, dear?" He turned to his wife. "Care to ride with me?"

Mrs Holmes gave one of the most honest smiles they'd seen from her in a long time.

"That sounds lovely, dear. Thank you, Mycroft."

"Of course, Mother." Mycroft turned to Sally. "Do you ride, Sally?"

John grinned, both at the similarity of having been asked that question himself not too long ago and his own confusion at exactly what was meant, and because he heard 'Ride, Sally, Ride' in the back of his mind.

"He means horses," he told her.

"Ah," Sally blushed. "No, I never have, sorry."

"That's okay," Lestrade grinned, "Sally can ride with John and me, Anthea with you two, and Mr and Mrs Holmes can keep an eye on us from the buggy. Right?" He looked at Mycroft, then sighed. "And you already told Dennis exactly that, didn't you?"

"I must confess I did, Gregory."

"Of course you did."

"Disappointed, dearest?"

Greg gave him an impish grin.

"I would have been disappointed if you had not already foreseen how it would turn out. Are we having lunch after?"

"Naturally."

"Did you call ahead this time?"

"I made the reservation with Anthony four days ago."

"I love you."

"I also requested an extra serving of the apple jelly."

"Now I love you even more."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as his brother and the Detective Inspector made goo goo eyes at each other, but smiled when John grasped his hand and stroked his thumb over Sherlock's fingers.

"So," Mycroft said, "that's the plan for tomorrow. A ride, lunch, an afternoon of relaxation here, and for tomorrow night, Anthea has managed to procure some tickets."

"Tickets to what?" Lestrade asked warily. "I'm not going to have to wear a tux, am I?"

"Not at all. That would be frightfully out of place. Jeans and one of your colorful footy shirts would do nicely. You should choose your colors carefully, though. I wouldn't want you to appear to support the wrong team."

"Huh?"

Anthea picked up her phone and scrolled through some messages, then showed Lestrade the e-tickets she'd obtained. Lestrade's eyes widened.

"The Arsenal game? You're taking me to the Arsenal game? You are coming too, right? It's not just for John and me and Sally? You're coming with me?"

Mycroft smiled indulgently while Greg and John nearly vibrated in their seats. Sally was excited too.

"Sherlock, Anthea and I shall be coming as well. Of course, we expect to be rewarded for our sacrifice."

"Oh, you will be."

Lestrade and John beamed at their lovers, but held any further innuendo back in deference to the parents being present. Anthea smiled at Sally, full of meaning, and Sally blushed.

"Yes, well…" Mycroft cleared his throat and looked towards his parents, "we only have the six tickets. I did not think that would be quite your cup of tea."

Father smiled.

"That's perfectly fine, Mycroft. I expect your mother and I shall be tired after the morning's ride, and we shall happily retire here for the night."

"Good. Good, thank you. Now then, for Sunday afternoon and evening, I have asked Mrs Weaver and Geoffrey to lay in for Anthea's favorite feast, and have invited Mrs Hudson and Christy to join us then as well. And Monday evening we have reservations at Renard again, for the eight of us. Do not look so worried, dearest, you and Sally do not have to be in the office until Tuesday noon, so will have plenty of time to digest and recover. I have not yet made plans for the days, though, so suggestions are entirely welcome."

"The cider mill on Sunday," Lestrade said immediately. "Alex Desmond asked John and me to come by soon to taste his latest brew, and Sally likes a good cider too, don't you, Sal?"

She nodded, not quite knowing what exactly she was agreeing to, but seeing Greg smiling and happy made her want to agree to anything he proposed.

"And shopping on Monday," Anthea added. "If we're going to Renard, Sally and I need new dresses. And shoes."

"What about Saturday?" John asked.

"The Natural History Museum," Sherlock replied instantly. "They have a new display on I've been longing to see. It should only take a few hours."

Though it wasn't really to his taste, John nodded. If Sherlock wanted to go there, he would follow. 

"That takes care of Saturday morning. What about Saturday afternoon?"

"Sally?" Lestrade asked. He saw her hesitate. "This is your celebration too, Sally. You don't have to just go along with us. I told you, anything you want, and if you don't want to do something, you don't have to."

"I completely agree," Mycroft said. "I apologize if it seems we are taking over your time with things you would rather not do."

"No, no! It all sounds lovely, and I'd really like to join you for all that. Truly."

Sherlock grinned at her.

"And Sally has something in mind for Saturday afternoon, don't you, Sally?"

Her first instinct was to glare at him, but when she saw his grin, she realized it wasn't malicious.

"I… A friend of mine told me about this thing on Saturday. It sounded kind of fun. I thought I might go, if I wasn't called in."

"What is it?" Lestrade asked, curious.

She hesitated again, worried it might seem too low-brow, too pedestrian. Mycroft smiled kindly at her, encouraging, and she shored herself up.

"There's a festival in St Augustine's Park. There's supposed to be music, and comedy acts, and such. It sounded like fun."

Anthea furiously typed.

"Oooh!" She exclaimed. "Perfect! Mostly jazz music, some classical, a little rock. And the comedy acts are actually quite promising. Some of them are real headliners. We could take a picnic, lounge around on some blankets in the sun, enjoying music and laughter."

"Sounds great!" Greg enthused, and John nodded.

"Well then," Mycroft smiled again, "it seems our plans are made."

Anthea was already busily typing messages to confirm these plans with the relevant parties.

"Anyone up for another game?" Sherlock asked, preparing to leave the table.

"Actually," John said, holding on to Sherlock's hand and kissing his fingers, "I was hoping I could persuade you to play for us again tonight?"

Sherlock's eyes softened, and he shared a quick glance with his brother, who nodded. Sally had only been at the Baker Street flat a few times, and had only heard Sherlock sawing violently on his violin, so she wasn't expecting much. But half an hour later, she found herself seated in a comfortable chair in the music room, Greg, John and Anthea and the parents surrounding her, feeling tears drip down her cheeks as she listened to the beautiful music the two brothers produced. 

Sherlock was lost in the music, his eyes closed and his fingers moving so elegantly on the strings; Mycroft's eyes were focused on his little brother while his fingers danced along the ivory of the piano. Every time Sherlock's violin surged to a crescendo, Mycroft held his breath and looked at his brother with such love and devotion, Sally would have felt jealous if Mycroft had been her lover. She glanced at Lestrade. He was blinking away moisture, his eyes firmly fixed on the two playing men, nothing but deep love and affection in his face. Watson was the same, gaze trained on Sherlock, swallowing and sniffing quietly as his lover played. 

For more than an hour, they sat and listened and watched, the brothers moving seamlessly from one piece into another, the beautiful music moving heart and soul. When they finally stopped, long moments of silence echoed through the music room, until Sherlock put down his violin and Mycroft rose from his seat at the piano. The brothers embraced, Sherlock caressing Mycroft's back, Mycroft threading his long fingers through his brother's curls. It was deeply intimate, and Sally felt like she should turn away, but she couldn't. 

Then Lestrade stood, and held out his arms. Both brothers rushed to him and held him tightly.

"I love you," he whispered, kissing first Mycroft, then Sherlock on the cheek. "I love you so much."

"John," Sherlock implored, and John Watson stood and let himself be dragged into the hug. 

"Beautiful," John breathed, kissing Sherlock and hugging Mycroft and leaning against Lestrade. "So beautiful."

When they broke apart, Anthea threw herself at Mycroft, hugging him and kissing his cheek, then did the same to Sherlock. Father followed, and then Mother, though their acceptance of her hug was more stiff than those before. Sally didn't know what to do, but some instinct made her stand before Sherlock.

"That was truly amazing, Sherlock, so beautiful. Thank you for letting me share that."

He smiled and reached out his hand, cupping her cheek for just a second. 

"You're welcome, Sally."

"Thank you for your appreciation, Sally," Mycroft said quietly, patting her shoulder.

It wasn't quite the hugs and kisses the others had gotten, but it was closer than anything even her wildest dreams or nightmares could have predicted.

*****

After another couple of drinks and more talk, Anthea snagged Sally's arm and brought her upstairs to their rooms. 

"Now, breakfast tomorrow will be at nine, because it is a leisure day. Dress casual, jeans and a shirt will do. Wear something you won't mind getting dirty, and bring a change of clothes for lunch after, casual too. If you wake up early and want to do something else than lie there staring at your ceiling or relaxing in the bathtub, just come downstairs, Austin or someone else will find you and bring you to whatever you want to do."

They reached their doors, and Sally just stared at Anthea. The beautiful young woman smiled widely and caressed Sally's cheek. 

"Don't be scared, Sally. We're really not that bad. And we're really grateful. And impressed. Very impressed. You're very pretty."

Sally leaned against the wall next to her room's door, and stared wide eyed at Anthea. 

"Very pretty," Anthea repeated, as she gently brushed her hand through Sally's curls, tucking them behind Sally's ear. Anthea leaned in, her lips only an inch or so from Sally's, sharing her breath with her. "Very pretty."

Anthea pulled back.

"Goodnight, Sally. I'll be right next door, if you want anything."

And then she was gone. 

Sally shook herself, energy zinging through her body. This was too weird! But she rallied and went into her room, where she quickly changed and slid into the bed, and fell asleep in minutes, dreaming of laughing Holmeses and emotional Lestrades and Watsons, and beautiful women teasing kisses along her lips.

*****

"Morning!" Lestrade greeted her cheerfully as Austin showed her into the morning room. He was the only one there.

"Good morning, Sir."

"Please, Sally. When we're here, can you call me Greg? I feel old enough already!"

"Sorry. Good morning, Greg."

He smiled.

"Did you sleep well?"

She blushed.

"Ooh!" Lestrade crowed before she could even formulate an answer. "I see you did! Nice dreams? Or did you step next door?"

"Greg!" she hissed.

"Sorry!" he said, not looking sorry at all. But when he caught the genuine distress on her face, he dropped his smile. "I'm sorry, Sally. I won't…"

"It's okay," she said, sad to see his cheerful mood gone. "It's just… I still don't get what's going on!"

Lestrade sat and nodded, and waited until she had collected her own plate of food and sat down as well in the seat she'd had at dinner.

"Sally… Can I tell you something?"

"Of course!" she replied.

"I'm a man deeply in love."

She stared at him, then started to chuckle.

"Yeah, I got that."

"You did? Good!" He looked pleased again. "And you know people in love always want their friends and those around them to be happy as well, right? And for ten years, I've not told anyone I was in love, or tried to make them feel as happy as me. I couldn't. I know you understand why."

He was serious, and she nodded. After everything she'd learned, she did understand why.

"But now you're here!" He exclaimed, smiling again. "And you know, and I can try to make you happy!" He grinned.

"Sir… Greg… Exactly what are you trying to tell me?"

Lestrade constructed a varied bite of mushroom, egg, sausage, tomato, bacon and a small piece of toast onto his fork, and shoved it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. When he was done, he pointed his empty fork at her and spoke quietly.

"Anthea is good people. She may not be your forever, but she can certainly make you happy for now."

Sally gaped at him. 

Before either of them could say or do anything else, Mycroft, Sherlock, John and Anthea walked in, followed soon after by the parents. Sally was distracted by the kisses both Mycroft and Sherlock gave Lestrade, Mycroft on the lips and Sherlock on the cheek, and then Anthea sat down between her and Greg with a plate and kissed Sally on the cheek.

"Good morning, Sally," Anthea smiled.

"Hi! Ehm… good morning."

Sally, blushing furiously, ducked her head down and concentrated on her food while the others chatted around her.

*****

The remainder of breakfast and the ride in the stretch limousine were mostly lost on Sally, but when Greg nudged her to get out of the car when they'd reached their destination, she snapped back into focus. She watched Mycroft, Sherlock and Anthea be brought into the farmhouse by a gruff man, accepted a dreadful cup of coffee while she waited by the car with Lestrade, John and the parents, and smiled while the gruff man - Dennis, she'd been told - helped Mrs Holmes into a buggy drawn by a huge horse. Mr Holmes climbed in after her and took the reigns, assuring Dennis he still knew how to handle them. 

A few minutes later, the Holmes brothers and Anthea came out of the house in their riding gear. Sally swallowed. They looked magnificent. Sherlock, for all that he angered her, was always the very definition of pretty. Mycroft in his gear was all long legs and broad shoulders, and Sally admired his lines and posture. Anthea was beauty personified. Supple thighs in her tights and pert breasts under her slim jacket, she oozed charm and seduction. Sally coughed, and Lestrade and John smirked.

A woman and a boy came round the other side, leading two huge beasts and a smaller mare, which were all greeted lovingly by the three riders, who then checked and climbed them. Greg and Dennis brought John and Sally to the barn, and she sighed in relief as she saw the three quads waiting there.

"You have experience with these, Ms Donovan?" Dennis asked.

"I do, sir," she replied.

Dennis laughed.

"Haven't been called sir in ages, girl. Dennis'll do me right fine. Listen to Greg, he knows what he's doing with these. And Greg," Dennis grabbed onto Lestrade's wrist as Greg sat on his quad, "call me, yeah? If Mr Holmes isn't quite fit yet."

"How did you know?"

"Saw him walking, didn't I. Left leg?" Lestrade and John stared at him. "I work with horses. Something wrong with the leg, it's my job to notice immediately. Humans are not that different, no matter how much Mr Holmes likes to pretend he's above all that."

Lestrade barked out a laugh.

"I won't tell him you said that! But thank you, Dennis. We've got Dr Watson with us, and Mycroft's promised us he would tell us when he started feeling his leg. We won't be as long as last time."

"Good. I'll be waiting."

Dennis turned and left, and the three quads carefully drove out of the barn, circling until they were behind the three riders on horseback. The buggy closed the line.

*****

They took a different route this time, taking paths that would accommodate the buggy easily. At several times Mycroft, Greg and John fell back to check in, gratified to see Father Holmes expertly handle the horse and buggy, chatting a little. Mother Holmes even laughed a few times. In the open meadows, they raced. Anthea was clearly as skilled a rider as the two brothers, and they raced abundantly. John and Greg gave Sally some time to get acquainted with the quad, then bit the dust - or the mud - when she outraced them both. 

After nearly two hours, several races and much laughter, Mycroft turned to Lestrade.

"I'm starting to feel my knee, my dearest. Would you mind a gentle trot back to the farmhouse?"

"Not at all, My. Thank you for telling me."

Mycroft on Richelieu led the way, Greg riding quietly beside him on his quad. Sherlock on D'Artagnan followed, John at his side. Sally paired with Anthea, obviously, and the parents closed the line.

"My dear," Father Holmes said quietly, guiding his horse and buggy to follow the others, "what can possibly be your objection to that? Can you not see how much they care for each other? Can you not see the love?"

"Please, my husband," she finally replied. "I see it. I do not know how to make amends."

He stared at her. He was not brilliant like her or their children, but one thing he did better than all of them was read human emotions. Still, he hesitated.

"If you mean that, if you truly mean that… then perhaps don't try to make amends. I'm not certain any can be gained, for either of us, not at this time. Start afresh. Start now."

Mrs Holmes linked her arm through her husband's and rested her cheek on his shoulder. It was the most intimate and honest thing they'd shared in years.

*****

Sally shared a room with Anthea for their shower afterwards, but Anthea gave her space. She waited patiently on the bed while Sally showered, but her eyes lingered on Sally's towel clad form when she came out of the bedroom. At first, Sally didn't know how to act, but then her normal sass took over. 

"Anthea?"

"Yes, my dear?" Anthea said as she watched Sally pick up her bag and the change of clothes she'd been told to bring.

"I… Will this be okay? For lunch?" Sally asked, pulling out another pair of slim fit jeans and a revealing top. "I don't want to make a fool of myself."

Anthea smiled.

"Oh, my dear. This will be perfect. You will look absolutely astonishing."

Sally smiled as Anthea hurried into the bathroom.

*****

"I think your Anthea's gonna make a move on my Sally," Greg said as Mycroft kissed him in the shower.

"Gregory…" Mycroft sighed, "must you speak of other people's sex life whilst we're together?"

*****

"Anthea's hitting on Donovan," John whispered as Sherlock was nibbling his neck under the hot spray.

"John," Sherlock moaned, but not in a good way, "I said your jealousy aroused me, but this is not the kind of jealousy I was speaking of. Please wash and rinse. I am done with our shower now."

*****

When they reconvened at the car, Greg and John whistled in appreciation as Sally stepped out of the house. Her legs looked endlessly long in the tight jeans, and the top, while wide and flowing, clung to her skin whenever she moved. Anthea's eyes lingered on every movement.

A short drive later, they entered the Bull & Castle, the same boy from their previous visit at the reception desk. This time, the boy's eyes lit up when he spotted Mycroft, and he eagerly brought them to their table. After only a moment, Anthony appeared to take their drinks order, and Sally and the elder Holmeses took menu cards and started reading. 

"You're not having anything, Greg?" Sally asked when she noticed he hadn't taken a menu.

"We already know what we're having," he replied, gesturing to Mycroft, Sherlock, John and Anthea. "You choose something. Take your time."

"Anything you'd recommend?"

"Everything, that's the problem! It's all fantastic!"

Anthony served their drinks, and stood by waiting for their orders.

Mrs Holmes chose a salad dish with new potatoes, Mr Holmes went for the chicken pot pie. Sally chose the mixed grill, she'd seen one being served to another table and it had looked great. Anthea wanted lobster. 

"The burger," John said when Anthony looked at him. He'd dreamed about that burger.

"Fish and chips, Sir?" Anthony asked of Sherlock, who confirmed with a nod.

"Ribs and a ploughman's lunch?" Anthony then asked of Lestrade and Mycroft, who also smiled in confirmation. Mycroft beckoned Anthony to lean closer and quietly spoke to him. "Of course, Sir. My pleasure."

They chatted as they waited and sipped their drinks, Sally asking Anthea about when and where she learned to ride, and there were funny stories exchanged of early horse riding lessons and the time John got a quad stuck in the mud and it took three of his army buddies to hoist it free. The food was brought to the table, Mr and Mrs Holmes being served first. John got his burger with a huge mound of chips on the side, and Anthea was served the largest lobster Sally had ever seen. When her own mixed grill arrived, it looked about double the size she'd seen served at the other table, and she wondered if she was really supposed to eat all that. Sherlock's plate nearly groaned under the amount of fish on it, and Lestrade received a veritable mountain of ribs. Mycroft's platter was piled high with meats and cheeses, and as promised, a very large side dish of apple jelly.

Lestrade laughed.

"What did you tell him? That we weren't going to eat again for a fortnight?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Gregory. I merely asked Anthony to increase some of the portions, since all we're likely to have this evening will be a 'football pie' and 'football beer'. I simply thought it might be wise to have a suitable lining in our stomachs before we venture there."

Still laughing, Greg started to hand round the ribs, using his fingers to place one each onto Mycroft, Sherlock, John and Anthea's plates. He didn't even hesitate before putting one onto Sally's plate as well. Then, to her amazement, Sherlock used his fingers to distribute pieces of his fish to them, and Mycroft cut into his meats and cheeses and handed them round as well. While she and Anthea were included in this distribution of food, the parents were not. Anthea expertly dug out some succulent pieces of lobster and shared them. John held out his plate and Lestrade, Anthea and Mycroft quickly speared some chips with their forks. Understanding now the meaning of the excessively large portion on her plate, Sally held it out as well. Quick fingers snagged pieces of grilled meat, and she couldn't help but smile at this clear inclusion of her in the group.

They ate and talked for quite a long time. Everything Sally tasted was delicious, and whenever she felt like she was full, someone offered another bite of something and she couldn't resist taking it. Lunch finally ended with all the platters shoved into the middle of the table, everyone taking what caught their fancy, nibbling at it while they finished their drinks. At last, almost two hours after they'd arrived, Mycroft signed for the bill and handed Anthony some cash, then did the same with the boy at the reception desk, who handed him a large bag with the pub's logo in return, which was gladly accepted by the driver when he brought the car around.

Stomach groaning from the food and body buzzing from the fun on the quads, Sally leaned back in her seat in the car and regarded the others. Mr and Mrs Holmes sat primly on the backseat, but there was a softness about them now that hadn't been there last time. Anthea sat next to Sally facing the parents, engrossed in her phone, but her free hand trailed softly up and down Sally's leg. It wasn't intrusive, and she quite liked it. Lestrade and Mycroft sat on the right hand side bench, Greg leaning back and staring out the window, while Mycroft gently rested against his side, eyes closed, their fingers interlaced. Sherlock and John sat across from them on the other side, Sherlock's back against John's chest and Sherlock's long legs stretched out on the bench, his eyes on his phone, while John held him and caressed his curls.

"A swim, I think," Mycroft said when Austin let them back into the house after the peaceful drive home. The parents disappeared into the sitting room. Anthea grabbed Sally again and took her upstairs, where she presented Sally with a choice of bathing costumes, and they both changed, Sally a bit apprehensive at being so unclothed in front of her boss and the Holmeses. But when Anthea brought her through the gym to the pool, she saw all of them in Speedo's, swimming laps, and lost her hesitation. This was pure luxury, and Sally gladly joined them. 

After about half an hour, William appeared and called out to Mycroft. One after the other was treated to a spectacular massage by the footman. In deference to Sally being there, they all kept on their shorts, even in the sauna, and when it was Sally's turn with William, she melted at those expert hands. If this was the life Lestrade enjoyed with Mycroft Holmes, she could certainly understand why her boss would put up with Sherlock's tantrums and Mycroft's oddities. It was pure bliss.

*****

They spent several hours at the pool, until Mycroft announced they should really be getting dressed and head out for the match they were going to. Arsenal wasn't her team, but Sally had been to a few live games before, and always enjoyed the atmosphere. Much more exciting than watching it on telly. And it was decidedly funny to see Mycroft and Sherlock in jeans. Apparently the brothers had shopped specifically for this expedition, because Lestrade's and John's eyes widened when the brothers came down the stairs in their new get-up. Of course, they had topped the jeans with bespoke shirts and light summer coats tailored to perfection, but still, it was a clearly appreciated effort.

While the match itself should have been a disappointment - Arsenal lost - at least it was one with plenty of action. Lestrade and John spent half the game on their feet, either cheering or booing, and the brothers rose every time their lovers did, although clearly not understanding why. It was hilarious hearing Greg and John trying to explain the rules to two grown men, and them not understanding, especially since these were supposed to be the two most intelligent men in the country. They had football pies and football beer, and Sally sat back and enjoyed the game with Anthea's arm linked through hers.

The drive back - and Sally would never know how Mycroft's car had avoided the rush and then gridlock of all the cars and busses leaving the stadium - was spent listening to Greg and John cussing out the team, the referee, and the conditions. Mycroft grinned.

"Does this mean you shall never ask me to accompany you to a match again, Gregory?"

"What? No, of course not! Why? It was a great game! Well, we lost, but it was still good. Of course I want you to come with me again. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, you do seem displeased at the evening."

"No, I'm not! Except that we lost. Other than that, it was great!"

Greg finally looked up to see the cheeky grin on Mycroft's face.

"Oh, you bastard!"

The rest of the ride was spent looking away from Lestrade snogging Mycroft thoroughly.

*****

"Sorry your team lost, Greg," Father said when they had all settled into the main living room with expensive whiskeys to sip.

"Yeah, bit of a let down for the side, but still, it was good. You watched?"

"It happened to be on television. I may have glanced at it a few times. That offside ruling in the first half was decidedly unfair."

"I know, right!"

And just like that, Father, Greg, John and Sally were discussing the game, while the other four looked on and listened in wonder. 

*****

They finally went to bed quite late.

"My?" Greg asked.

"Yes, my dearest?"

"Are you feeling… amorous?"

Mycroft, his back plastered against Lestrade's front, the policeman's arms tightly wrapped around him and his arousal obvious through his pajama trousers, grabbed Gregory's hand and brought it down to his crotch.

"Oh!" Greg breathed.

It was quick and dirty, compared to their usual, and they both loved every second of it. It took a few minutes for Mycroft to be able to speak again.

"If this is the effect a live match has on you, Gregory, I shall have to take to one you more often."

He meant it as encouragement, a compliment, but Lestrade took it differently.

"Are you… not happy with us? With the way we are with each other?" Greg pulled back, rolled onto his back. "I know we've been less… affectionate, but I swear that was just because of your injuries! Not because I didn't want you! Mycroft, I…"

"Greg!" Mycroft scolded, turning to face his Detective Inspector. "That was not at all what I meant. I appreciate your care of me in the past few weeks. I scarcely think I would have been up for more rigorous action. But I love it when you surprise me, when you take charge like that."

Lestrade turned his head to look at his lover, then brushed his fingers over Mycroft's face.

"When you don't have to think, don't have to decide, for once. Just let me take over."

Mycroft nodded, a blush on his face.

"Oh, love, I know that! And I love that! When you want. I just thought that… when you said…"

"Gregory. As always, you read my mind perfectly as to my desires. That should scare me, but it doesn't. I trust you. I love you."

Studying Mycroft for honesty, Greg finally nodded. 

"Okay. It's just that… I know it's still a bit odd with John in the mix, with how things are developing between him and Sherlock. I know you're worried about losing part of your brother's affections. And, well, we've been a little out of the ordinary for us as well. I mean, with that little fantasy thing, and then in the library… I guess I was worried you were getting bored with me."

Mycroft stared at him.

"Never. If there is one thing I can say with certainty, it is that you will never bore me. Ten years, Gregory, and you still manage to surprise me."

"I do?"

"Most definitely."

Lestrade preened a little. It was not nothing to be told by a Holmes that you could surprise them.

"How could you worry about such a thing, Gregory? Have I been remiss in my appreciation of you?"

"No! No, it's not that. It's just… well, you're you, you know, and I'm just... me."

Mycroft's eyes softened, and went a little sad.

"And you still do not believe that there is nothing 'just' about you being you. Gregory, you continue to fascinate me. Even after all you've seen, all you've encountered, you're still kind and gentle, honest and loyal. The very definition of a good man. Whereas I am… ambiguous in my morality at best. I lie and manipulate for a living, and have only a passing understanding of emotions. Yet still you trust me, and you love me. That alone is so astonishing to me I could spend the rest of my life trying to understand how you do that. Or why."

Greg gave him a tremulous little smile.

"Stop it," he whispered, "you're going to make me cry."

"Only good tears, I hope."

Greg nodded emphatically and kissed Mycroft long and slow.

"Yeah," he said when he finally pulled back, "yeah, all good."

*****

In the blue room, things were hot and heavy too. Sherlock stalked in after having changed in his own room, then prowled over to the bed, where John was reclining, his eyes and pupils widening in arousal at Sherlock's display. Sherlock discarded his robe and pulled away the duvet to expose John to his sight. 

"John," he purred, "I'd like to have my way with you. Are you amenable?"

John swallowed.

"What… what exactly would you like to do?"

"Nothing you're not ready for. May I?"

John licked his lips and nodded. Sherlock pounced.

Within moments, John was naked and writhing on the bed, Sherlock's mouth sucking him deep. When he felt those long fingers, wet with something, brush between his cheeks, John tensed. But then Sherlock hummed around him and John relaxed, not even feeling the first finger slide in. He felt the second one, though, and groaned a little, but Sherlock was relentless and found the right spot unerringly. Being a doctor, John was no stranger to the prostate, but he'd never had his own played with like this. Every little movement of those fingers sent shockwaves up and down his spine, and Sherlock's mouth was magnificent, and just when he felt he was going to tip over the edge, Sherlock's lips disappeared. John whined in protest, and his hands tried to thread into Sherlock's hair to pull him back where he needed him.

Sherlock chuckled.

"No, John. I'm having my way with you, not the other way around."

"Please, Sherlock, please!"

"Nope!"

And then the bastard, fingers still inside John and teasing him, laid biting kisses on John's thighs and abdomen until he was sure John had calmed a little. And only then did he return his mouth to where John wanted it. Sherlock repeated this twice more, bringing him to the edge and then retreating, and John was desperate. Fingers still inside, wriggling slightly every now and then, Sherlock crawled up and leaned over John.

"Look at me, John. Look into my eyes now."

John just barely managed to obey.

"I could do anything I wanted with you now. I could shove my cock inside your arse, and you would love it and beg for more. I could straddle your hips and sink down onto you, taking you deep inside and ride you until I wrenched your orgasm from you. I could turn you over and tie you down, and fuck you hard and fast so you would feel it for days, and you'd only want more. I could, and you know it. But I'm not going to do any of those things now, because I promised. I just want you to acknowledge that you want that."

John stared up at him.

"You need to tell me, John. Tell me you want that. Tell me you know it."

"Yes! Anything! You could do all that and more, and I'd love it and want it! Please, Sherlock, please!"

"Good, John," Sherlock purred again, "very good."

Then he swooped down again, took John into his mouth, and finally brought him release. When John at last opened his eyes again, it was to the magnificent vision of Sherlock kneeling up between his legs, his pajama trousers around his thighs, stripping his own cock roughly as he stared at John. Sherlock didn't make a sound, and didn't close his eyes, and when Sherlock's seed landed on John's chest and stomach, John knew he was completely lost.

He opened his eyes again when he felt himself being wiped down with a wet cloth. Sherlock, already cleaned and dressed in his trousers again, gently washed him, then handed him his pajama bottoms to put on. 

"Hold me, John," he demanded, and John just rolled over onto his side and wrapped himself around the consulting detective.

Sherlock trailed his now clean fingers over the arm John had wrapped around him.

"Are you alright, John?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. That was a bit… intense, though."

"Good or bad?"

"I'm not sure. It was a little bit scary, maybe?"

"Scary has never worried you before."

"It was never in such a situation before."

"What we did or what I said?"

"A little of both," John said after a while. "You were right that I would have welcomed it in that moment, but afterwards, I'm not sure I would have liked it."

Sherlock stayed silent.

"You were manipulating me with my own body, Sherlock. I don't like being manipulated."

"I needed you to know you were ready."

"I'll get ready in my own time. I'll let you now when I am. Don't do that to me again."

"I won't," Sherlock promised, but they both knew he meant 'I won't need to'.

John sighed.

"When we do this, Sherlock, - and I do mean when, not if - I want it to be because we both want to. Not because we're so crazy with lust we'd do anything to get off. I want it to be…"

"Gentle? Kind? Loving?"

John could hear just the tiniest bit of scorn edging the words. 

"Actually, yes. Because I do love you, Sherlock."

They were quiet for a bit.

"I shan't do it again. Unless you want me to."

John chuckled.

"Maybe when we've been together like that for a bit, okay? I know I'm crazy for saying this, but you're kinda hot like that, all in control."

Sherlock chuckled too, and the mood lightened. John squeezed him a little.

"And what was that stuff about tying me down? I thought that wasn't your taste?"

"It isn't. But I needed something to say, and it seemed appropriate. I'd much rather you kept your hands in place because I told to than because I have to tie them there."

John grinned, and kissed the back of Sherlock's neck.

"Alright. It felt amazing, though."

"Glad you liked it."

Then they both collapsed in giggles, and soon drifted off into sleep.

*****

A soft knock at her door pulled Anthea's attention away from her phone.

"Come in!"

Sally, in a camisole and robe, peered around the door, looking everywhere but at Anthea, reclined into the pillows on her bed in a short satin nightdress. 

"Hi. Ehm… sorry to bother you, but… ehm… I was wondering… about… breakfast? What time? No one told me."

"Come here, Sally," Anthea said, patting the bed next to her. The Sergeant came in and sat down, her pretty eyes still flitting everywhere but at Anthea. The assistant raised a hand and cupped Sally's cheek, and at last their gazes met.

"Breakfast is at nine on leisure days," she said softly. "So we can all have a long night's rest after a full day. Are you tired, Sally?"

"A bit. Must be all that fresh air and food."

"Did you have a good time today?"

For the first time, Sally looked less nervous and actually smiled.

"I did, yeah. Those quads are fun, and lunch was brilliant. And I've never enjoyed a massage like that. And the match was great."

"Good," Anthea whispered, scooting a little closer. "Then we should both get some sleep, so we can enjoy tomorrow's activities just as much. May I kiss you goodnight, Sally?"

Sally swallowed, staring into Anthea's eyes. Without consciously knowing it, she nodded.

The touch of Anthea's lips was light, so soft and gentle it was more of a barely there caress than actual contact. First cheek and then lips, Anthea kissed and nibbled so softly it hardly registered. But even so, there was no denying Sally was being kissed. By a beautiful woman. In a tiny satin nightdress. On a bed. She drew breath.

"I…"

"Goodnight, Sally," Anthea whispered again, and released her.

"Yes," Sally breathed, "goodnight."

*****


	3. Chapter 3

*****

There were plenty of significant glances thrown around as they sat down for breakfast the next morning. Mycroft and Sherlock, quite unable to help themselves, read each other and the others with a single gaze. Sherlock saw the sex and the emotional talk on his brother, and Mycroft read the gist of what had happened between Sherlock and John, which worried him. He resolved to speak to Gregory about it, hoping he could talk to John. Even if the wicked grin on Anthea's face hadn't clued them in, Sally was dropping hints left and right. Even Lestrade and John picked up on it. Greg seemed happy enough, but John had some tension, and Lestrade decided to try to speak with him during the day to find out what had happened.

"What exhibit especially are you interested in at the museum today, Sherlock?" 

Surprised, they all looked to Mother Holmes, who had asked the question. After the slightest of hesitations, Sherlock answered.

"It's a display of finds at a Bronze Age site. Spears and daggers and the like. There's also some jewelry from a treasure trove. Though it's mainly the barrow I'm interested in. The rocks used for the barrow appear to have been transported from Wales, which, in those days, was certainly a magnificent feat."

"Why?" John asked, before forking more eggs into his mouth.

"Because in those days, people rarely travelled further than the next village, let alone all the way to Wales to collect rocks for building a barrow in the South East of England, where it was found. Apart from the rocks, there's also pollen and seeds and even preserved insect life that indicates the origin as Wales. Which is why the Natural History Museum has included it in their collection."

"Right," John said, resigning himself to a morning of watching Sherlock peering at things too tiny for him to even see without a magnifying glass.

It turned out not to be as bad as all that, at all. Mycroft - or rather, Anthea, with her phone - had arranged for the exhibit to be closed for a private function that morning, so all of them could enjoy it in peace and quiet. The placards were actually quite interesting, and Sherlock and Mycroft both provided additional information. Sherlock gave facts, Mycroft spun a story. Eventually, Mr and Mrs Holmes and Anthea and Sally wandered off into other parts of the museum for a bit, and Lestrade pulled John over to one of the benches while the brothers were still examining the recreation of the barrow.

"You okay, John?"

"Sure. Why?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"I thought I saw some tension this morning."

"Greg," John sighed, "look, mate. It's not that I don't appreciate it, and I'll tell you honestly: when you weren't there, I missed being able to talk you, but… I can't do this if I have to report every single thing that happens between me and Sherlock. Some things I'd like to keep to myself."

Lestrade withdrew, and John immediately felt bad.

"You don't have to do anything, John. But that's kind of the point. I know Sherlock. I know he sometimes… steams ahead without regard for other people. I know Mycroft's worried. I just saw something this morning, and thought you might like to talk. Guess I was wrong. Sorry to have bothered you."

Before John could stop him, Lestrade stood and walked over to Mycroft, and the two of them had a quiet conversation. Then Greg left the room, leaving Mycroft staring after him sadly, until Mycroft focussed on John, his gaze hard now.

John swallowed, expecting another tongue-lashing, but Mycroft turned back to his brother and the display, and spoke with Sherlock. It looked like they were talking about the exhibit, but once, just once, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John, expression unreadable.

Lestrade returned a few minutes later, three steaming carton cups in hand. A coffee and two teas, John knew. The brothers smiled as they accepted their cups, then Mycroft linked his fingers with Greg's and Sherlock threaded his free arm through Greg's on the other side, allowing him enough movement to bring the coffee cup to his lips, leaning against him and even resting his head on Greg's shoulder. 

John couldn't make out any words, but the soft murmurs told him both brothers were speaking to Greg, about this exhibit if their pointing with their tea cups was to be believed. After a few minutes, Lestrade let out a startled laugh and kissed Sherlock's curls.

John hadn't felt this excluded since the first day he learned of their true meaning to each other.

*****

"What did you do?!" a quiet voice hissed into his ear what seemed like a painful eternity later. John looked up to see Anthea glaring at him.

"I… What? Nothing!" he tried to inject offense into his tone, but even he could tell it sounded mostly like guilt.

"Bullshit! I haven't seen them this distressed in ages. What did you do, Dr Watson?"

Great, he was back to being Dr Watson again. And distressed? Please! They looked quite cuddly with each other, standing there huddled up and chuckling. 

"Nothing, Anthea!" John was actually quite pissed off now. "I was asked something that I consider to be very personal, and I didn't feel like answering, alright!"

She swatted his shoulder, and he knew she'd significantly held back, because it didn't really hurt.

"Don't do that!" she hissed. "When have you ever known Greg Lestrade to ask anything of a personal nature if it wasn't for the other's benefit! He's certainly not asking it for himself."

"How did you know it was Greg?"

"Oh, please!" she scoffed. "Mycroft doesn't ask, he just sees, and Sherlock wouldn't know what a personal question was if it bit him in the ass, and you wouldn't mind it from him! Besides, they're protecting Lestrade, surrounding him. You can't do that, Watson, you can't hurt Greg. I thought you knew that by now."

John glanced around, and saw Sally standing a few feet away, a thoughtful look on her face as she watched Lestrade. Mr and Mrs Holmes were on the other side of them, pretending to look around, but really keeping an eye on their boys.

"I…" John slumped. "I didn't mean to, honest. It's just…"

Anthea seated herself next to him.

"Something happened between you and Sherlock last night, and Greg asked if you were alright, and you took it personally. No offense, John, but we could all see you were tense this morning. He wasn't asking you for details to satisfy some curiosity, Greg was just concerned."

"Yeah, I… I'm just not used to being asked about my sex life to this degree."

"Why would you be? Quite frankly, before this, no one cared that much, and Sherlock and Mycroft didn't need to ask, they could just see. But Greg, he's different. He doesn't care about the sex, honestly I'd be very surprised if he really wanted to know much about it, but he cares about Sherlock, and about Mycroft, and about you. If he asked you how you were, it was about how you felt, not what you did."

John winced.

"Again, yeah, I know what you're saying."

She swatted him again.

"So don't do that! Rule number one about the Holmes brothers - discarding for a moment the rules they have about each other - is don't hurt Greg Lestrade. Not physically and not emotionally. The man cares, John, God knows how or why, but he cares. And emotions may be quite the alien concept to Holmeses, but one thing they can tell is when Greg is unhappy. Don't make him unhappy."

"I hear you. I'm sorry."

"Pfff!" she waived away his contrition. "I like Greg. I mostly only mind because an unhappy Greg means an unhappy Mycroft. And when my boss is unhappy, bad things happen to small countries. Or even large countries. Or Sherlock goes on a rampage, which would get my boss involved, which would mean I spend more hours than is good for my eyes on my phone, when I could be seducing the lovely Sally."

John grinned.

"Yeah? So, you and Sally, that's going well then?"

She looked at him meaningfully.

"Now who's asking personal questions?"

John blushed.

"Point noted."

"Good."

Anthea rose, took Sally's arm, and the two of them meandered over to the three men in front of the exhibit.

"Sir?"

"Yes, my dear?" Mycroft smiled.

"If you are done with your perusal, perhaps we should return home? It should give us all time to change and have a drink before heading to the park for the festival."

"Excellent idea. Dearest? Sherlock, my sweet?"

"Yes, I'm done for now, My. I can always come back later to see it again."

"Of course. Please do let me know and I shall clear the hall for you. Kindly do not break into the museum this time?"

Sherlock smiled.

"But that is always such fun!"

"Don't make me arrest you, Sherlock," a rather more cheerful Lestrade admonished the child.

"Alright, alright, I'll be good." Sherlock grinned.

"Like that's ever going to happen," Lestrade huffed, but let Sherlock lead him toward the entrance with a smile on his face.

*****

In the car, Sherlock sat on the side bench with Greg and Mycroft this time, and John felt very lonely sitting opposite them.

*****

They arrived at the house and went up to change, the suits and rather more formal clothes they'd donned for the museum visit exchanged for comfortable casual wear. The jeans from the previous night did not return on the brothers, but both of them dressed rather simply, though still bespoke. Sally goggled when her boss came down in jeans and bespoke shirt too, and a cashmere sweater in his hand. She was just glad he hadn't draped it over his shoulders like some tennis club dandy, or she would've laughed. 

The ride to St Augustine's park was short. At the gate Anthea produced her phone to have their tickets scanned, and persuaded the staff to let through the two footmen, William and Geoffrey, who were carrying blankets and two folding chairs for Mr and Mrs Holmes, while Greg and John each carried a picnic basket. The festival had already started, and they found a spot from where they could mostly hear the music, while the comedy stage was a little further away. They set up the blankets and chairs in the summer sun, Mother Holmes protected by a wide brimmed hat, and the two footmen left after strolling around a little and sampling the music and comedy.

They lounged about for a while, and then Anthea took Sally for a stroll through the festival grounds. After a little bit, Anthea spotted an ice-cream cart, and tugged Sally into the line, offering to buy her one. 

"Anthea?" Sally bit her lower lip. Anthea straightened her posture from where she had been leaning into the pretty Sergeant.

"Yes?"

"Is Greg okay?"

That was not quite what Anthea had been expecting. She'd thought Sally would object to her affections towards her. Part of her was pleased that wasn't it, another part worried.

"He will be," she eventually said.

"What happened? He was so happy this morning." Anthea looked at Sally and saw the genuine concern and distress. She caressed Sally's cheek.

"Don't worry about it, dear. Lestrade will be fine."

"Did Sherlock…?"

"No, it was Dr Watson," Anthea cut Sally off.

"John? But…"

"Sherlock may be rude and childish, but he would never knowingly hurt Greg. Dr Watson dismissed Lestrade after what was an honest gesture of friendship and concern."

Sally stared and swallowed.

"Okay. You… you care about them."

In a rare show of honesty, Anthea smiled.

"Of course. Mycroft is very important to me. He took me in and gave me an extraordinary chance when no one else would have. Sherlock is an errant child I can't help but love. And Gregory, he is the kindest and best man I've ever known. They are my family. I have no one else."

Sally looked at the woman who was always so in control, and saw the small cracks in the surface. Without thinking, she leaned in and firmly kissed Anthea's lips.

A whistle from behind them interrupted her before she could go too far. As she looked up, what seemed like a teenage boy with his arm around a teenage girl smiled back at her.

"Problem?" she asked, getting into her Sergeant persona.

"Not at all. Just appreciating the view of two such beautiful ladies. I didn't mean to be disrespectful."

"Please," the girl smiled, "you'll have to forgive Percy. But the two of you are really hot together." She fanned herself with a hand to underline her statement.

"Percy?" Anthea grinned.

"Parsifal, at your service," the boy grimaced a little. "My parents were really into the classics. And this is my Lady Eleanor."

"Ellie," the girl beamed, holding out her hand to be shaken. 

"I'm Sally," Donovan said, taking the offered hand. "And this is Anthea."

"Such pretty names for such pretty ladies," the boy said, shaking their hands after his girlfriend had. 

"You've got a right charmer there, Ellie," Sally grinned.

"I know," she sighed dramatically, "he's such a tease."

The line moved up and they found themselves at the front of it.

"Let us buy you your treat. For the compliments," Anthea smiled. After the requisite objections, Anthea flashed a card and got her way. The four of them wandered to the side.

"Well, Lady Eleanor and Lord Parsifal, what are your plans?"

"No plans, really," Ellie blushed, licking her plastic spoon of strawberry ice-cream. "We've only just arrived. We're hoping to hear David James, you know, the jazz musician? We both really like him, but his concerts are so expensive!"

She blushed even more, and Percy dug his elbow gently into her side.

"You snuck in," Sally said.

"Because you couldn't afford it," Anthea added.

Percy seemed to shrink. 

"You're festival security? Look, we didn't mean to…"

"Come on!" Anthea blithely chirped, already busily typing away on her phone, and grasped Percy's wrist, while Sally did the same to Ellie.

*****

"We're about to have company," Mycroft said from where he was stretched out onto one of the blankets, Gregory tucked up against him and Sherlock draped over their legs like a giant cat. Mother and Father sat in their folding seats, while John sat apart. They'd have to do something about that. It was unacceptable. It was making his brother sad.

"Company?" Lestrade asked, clearing his eyes of the sleep that had encroached in the half hour they'd had in the sun.

"Hmmm," Mycroft hummed. "Anthea's found someone interesting."

They remained in place but eagerly scanned the grounds for Anthea, Sally and the new arrivals. When they finally did arrive, the leisurely men hadn't moved an inch.

"My Lord Mycroft," Anthea said, "May I present the Lady Eleanor and Lord Parsifal?"

Scared for a moment they were being introduced to actual nobility, the two teenagers flushed.

"Oh, hush," Mycroft smiled, holding out his hand. "Ellie and Percy, correct?" he asked, having been informed by Anthea of course.

"Yes, sir," Percy, the braver of the two said, shaking Mycroft's hand.

"I'm Mycroft. This is Gregory, Sherlock, our parents, and John. You already know Anthea and Sally."

"Yes, sir."

"Stubborn lad, aren't you?" Lestrade grinned.

"Sir?"

"Never mind," Greg sighed. "Anthea?"

"Tickets have been electronically procured and sent to your phones."

"How did you know…?"

"It's always best not to ask stupid questions," Sherlock drawled from his perch atop Mycroft and Lestrade's legs.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade admonished, but instead of a swat, Sherlock received a tender stroke through his hair.

"You'll have to forgive my brother," Mycroft sighed, "he isn't one for social niceties at the best of times."

"Boring!" Sherlock grinned.

"Of course, my sweet. Please," Mycroft gestured to the ample space left on their blankets, "do join us."

Following Anthea and Sally's example, the two kids settled on the ground.

"Will I get into trouble with the law if I offer you a glass of champagne?" Mycroft asked.

"I'm twenty, sir. And Ellie's nineteen."

Mycroft glanced at Lestrade, who shrugged.

"Old enough to enjoy a few glasses of bubbles, if you ask me. Did you bring your warrant card, Sal?"

"Of course, Boss. Did you?"

"Never leave home without it. And even if I did, I'm sure Sherlock's got one or two of mine stashed away in his pockets somewhere."

Sherlock grinned again.

"I have to keep in practice, Lestrade. And you do make it so easy for me to lift them from your person."

There was laughter at that while Anthea and Sally opened the picnic baskets and started setting out the food, plates, glasses and cutlery they came across before finding the chilled champagne bottles.

"Move, Lockie," Lestrade said with a grin as he gently nudged Sherlock off his legs, earning himself a glare both for the shove and the nickname. "Make yourself useful and open the champagne."

Ellie and Percy stared openmouthed at the feast that was being set out before them, while Sherlock did indeed open one of the bottles and started pouring its contents into the glasses Mycroft held out. 

"Father, Mother," Mycroft said politely as he offered his parents the first two, then held out two more that he handed to their guests once Sherlock had filled them, and distributing the rest as each glass was filled.

"A toast!" he exclaimed when they all had their glasses. "To new friends, to old friends and to loved ones."

They all raised their glasses, then drank. 

"Ooh!" Ellie breathed after her sip. "This is really delicious!"

"Try it with a strawberry," Anthea told her, holding out a bowl of small but luscious berries. The girl's eyes widened as the tastes mingled. Anthea kept her smile in check. The poor girl couldn't know she was sipping a very expensive drink. Anthea would have to warn her at some point that not all champagne tasted like that.

In an attempt to start closing the rift he'd caused only that morning between himself and Lestrade, John scooted closer to Greg.

"Isn't this a breach of security?" he whispered to his friend.

"What do you mean?" Greg asked, honestly confused. "Security's here." And he nodded at two men and a woman stationed around them unobtrusively. 

John could kick himself. Of course there was security. He wondered how he could have missed them all this time. Had they been there at the farm, and at the game yesterday? Exactly how much had he missed? Stupid. 

"Yeah, no, I mean… we don't know these kids. How come they're allowed near to Mycroft?"

Greg laughed.

"John… Anthea cloned their phones when she decided they were interesting, getting their details. Before she brought them over here, she and Mycroft had already received at least two reports on them from the minions back at HQ."

John stared at him. Greg shrugged.

"Anthea's got a knack for finding interesting people. Mycroft likes interesting people, and finding out what Anthea twigged to. Just go with it."

They tuned back in to the conversation going on around them, to find Mycroft expertly interrogating the two youngsters, but in such a way it seemed like friendly chat. Before long, they had been told that Percy had been orphaned three years prior, and that Ellie was raised by a single mother holding down two jobs. Both of them were in university on scholarships, both promising students, but money was tight. All of this Mycroft and Anthea obviously knew already. They seemed truly ashamed of sneaking into the park, but the lure of finally being able to hear David James live had proved too enticing. 

"I swear, sir," Percy said, "if I could afford it, I honestly would have bought tickets. But for the sixty pounds it would have cost us, we can feed ourselves for several weeks."

Those who knew all refrained from pointing out that the two glasses each of champagne they'd been served by then cost more than that when put together.

"Well, there is absolutely no need to trouble your conscience about that any further, Percy. You have legitimate tickets on your phones."

"Yes, sir, and we can't thank you enough for that. It just means that we owe you now, instead of the organizers of this festival. So, if there is anything we can…"

"Don't finish that sentence," Sherlock interrupted him. "My brother takes promises very seriously, so don't make him any. It's better that way."

"You really are quite rude, aren't you?" Ellie said, then blushed as they all stared at her. "I'm sorry!" she wheezed.

Sherlock burst out laughing, quickly followed by the others.

"Oh, I like her, Mycroft!" Sherlock gasped. "Do something, will you?"

"I had already decided on the affirmative on that, my sweet," Mycroft said as he brushed through his brother's curls. He turned to Ellie. "Take no notice of us, my dear. We find people who tell the unvarnished truth quite refreshing. Something to be rewarded. Now, food, I think, for all of us."

As Anthea and Sally started handing round food, John raised a questioning eyebrow at Greg.

"Those two will find their scholarships miraculously increased," Lestrade whispered in answer. "Mycroft and Sherlock have got a foundation for that."

John remembered the grandchildren at the Indian restaurant, and nodded.

*****

For the next hour or so, they ate and talked. That Ellie and Percy clearly had no idea of the cost of the imported cheeses and ham and caviar, and enjoyed them as much as the relatively simple lamb pie, homemade breads and fruits grown by Mrs Weaver in the hothouse on Mycroft's property, only endeared them further. They ventured around the park a few times in groups, listening to music or laughing with a comedian, while others stayed back and enjoyed the sun. 

The sun was just setting when it was time for David James to come on stage. The parents offered to stay behind, claiming they were very comfortable in their seats and could hear the music fine from there, while the others made their way closer to the stage. It was an enchanting hour. Mycroft held Gregory to his chest, Anthea held Sally's hand, playing with her fingers, and Percy and Ellie sat closely together, riveted by the music, which charmed them all. The only fly in the ointment was Sherlock and John. Sherlock sat close to his brother and Greg, and while John sat next to him on the grass, they didn't interact.

*****

"That was amazing!" Ellie enthused, she and Percy vibrating with excitement as the group made their way back to their spot. "His CDs are wonderful, but to hear him live… fantastic!"

"Yes," Mycroft conceded, "a very talented man, indeed." He grinned. "Dessert?"

There was sweet apple pie and strawberry tartlets with chocolate, and it took Percy and Ellie a few seconds to notice David James was standing there after the security man from the festival who had escorted him cleared his throat.

"I hear I have some fans here," David said, and the two stared at him in awe.

David James turned out to be a very pleasant man, who chatted easily and lovingly about his music. He expressed his regret after about half an hour that he had to leave, but his enjoyment of meeting fans who were so excited about him and his music was very genuine. Not long after he left, Mycroft announced it was time for them to go as well. Ellie hugged him tightly, which he accepted with a bit of surprise.

"Thank you, Mr Mycroft," she whispered. "I know you arranged that. Thank you so much!"

Before he could say anything, Percy hugged him too.

"Thank you, sir. This was almost too amazing to be true. Thank you."

"Yes, well…" Mycroft blushed and stammered. "Keep up your coursework at uni. I expect good things from you!"

"We won't let you down, sir, we promise."

John tried to figure out if they would guess their scholarship increase came from this man and this chance encounter, let it go, and appreciated Mycroft all the more for it. But John had other fish to fry. He had a Greg to butter up into being his friend again. And he had a Sherlock to catch.

*****

John and Greg grabbed the now much lighter picnic baskets again, while Sherlock and Mycroft carried a folding chair each and Anthea and Sally brought the folded blankets. 

"You were quite wonderful with those children, Mycroft."

"Thank you, Mother," a quite startled Mycroft replied. His mother had been making various comments - all complimentary - during the afternoon, but each time they came, it surprised him. He always expected a barb to follow.

"What did you and your brother mean when you said they should be rewarded?"

Mycroft exchanged a quick glance with Sherlock.

"We've set up a scholarship fund."

"And those children will benefit from it? That is truly commendable."

On edge, it was Sherlock who replied.

"Yes, well, Mother, it seems we are not quite the monsters you like to make us out to be."

It was only because Greg was already watching her that he saw the brief hint of pain cross her features, before she got her mask back on.

*****

After the short car ride back to the house, they settled into the main living room again, where Austin served drinks and Mrs Weaver and Amanda brought some very light snacks and nibbles. John proposed a card game, hoping to draw them all together, but while Greg, Anthea and Sally accepted, the four Holmeses declined. They looked on as the four of them played, Mr and Mrs Holmes on a sofa on one side, Mycroft and Sherlock across from them. Mycroft lounged in one of the armchairs, while Sherlock sat on the floor like the four players, his back against Mycroft's chair. There was no contact between them other than Sherlock's hand resting on his brother's ankle. The Holmeses observed.

Sally and Anthea were giggling and conferring, to much joking protests from the men, as they sat together on pillows at one side of the coffee table. John Watson sat across from them, laughing and joking, but there was tension in him. Lestrade sat at the short side of the coffee table, the two Holmes brothers at his back, watching him like hawks. Greg seemed cheerful enough, but he was tight. It was Sherlock who finally broke the seemingly friendly game.

"Greg," he said, putting his hand on Lestrade's shoulder, "time for bed."

"Yes, dearest," Mycroft concurred, "it's the mill tomorrow, and you should be well rested to be able to consume all of the fine ciders Alex has put aside for you."

Lestrade smiled at them.

"Yeah, okay. I just thought that… well, it doesn't matter."

He rose, exaggerating stretching his knees and back, groaning like an old man. 

"Bed for me seems about right! This old copper's got to get his rest while he can. Goodnight, all."

Greg left to cheery goodnight wishes from the others, and the brothers followed him up. John left shortly after. Sally and Anthea played another game of Snap! but it devolved into laughter, and they cleared the cards and headed up too.

"My dear, don't think that…"

"Something happened between John and Greg." Mrs Holmes replied to her husband when he spoke after the others had left. "Our sons are worried about him."

"You're not going to…"

"I shan't," she said immediately. "I promise, dear. I've had time to watch and learn. I'm not quite comfortable, but I see no deception."

"Good. That's good. Shall we retire to bed as well, my dear?"

"Yes, please," she replied, taking her husband's arm and letting him lead her upstairs.

*****

"Sally…" Anthea breathed between kisses, her hands caressing the Sergeant's flesh.

"I…."

"Just to sleep. I promise. I just want to sleep next to you, hold you in my arms."

Sally nodded.

"And kiss me?" she asked.

"Any time, my dear. Any time."

Sally groaned and let herself be pulled into the bed. Anthea kept her promise. She kissed, and she held Sally close all night.

*****

A floor below, John was listening and waiting. Hearing the shower in Sherlock's room cut off, he got up and stood in the hallway. Sherlock emerged from his room, shot him a single glance, and then strode to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. He walked in, turned and the firmly closed the door.

Message received.

*****

"Scoot," Sherlock said, nudging Greg and Mycroft so his brother was on the other side and Greg in the middle as Sherlock slid in.

"What's this?" Lestrade laughed a little, even as he welcomed the two brothers enfolding him into twin hugs.

"It's Lestrade appreciation day," Mycroft murmured as he snuggled in deeper.

"Oh, happy day," Sherlock sniffed.

Gregory thought for a moment, then checked in with Mycroft, who nodded, and finally turned onto his side to face Sherlock, Mycroft plastered along his back, head resting on Greg's shoulder so he could see his brother clearly.

"Lockie?" Gregory said. "Baby, please?" 

"Must you?" Sherlock tried to glare, but it was lost in sudden tears. "Don't call me that."

"Okay, I won't, I'm sorry."

"Sorry? You're always fucking sorry!" Sherlock tried to shove at him, but both Greg and Mycroft held him too close. "You always think it's your fault! Always think it's something you've done! Well, guess what?! It wasn't you, alright! It was me! It's always me! I always fuck up! I fucked up!"

"Oh, brother mine," Mycroft said in the most serious tone he could muster through his sadness, "such language!"

Sherlock took a second, then laughed through his tears.

"I would apologize, but I won't really mean it, and you'd know it. I…"

"What happened, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked quietly, holding the man close as his brother reached over Lestrade to caress Sherlock's flank.

"I took it too far."

"Sex?"

"I needed to show John he wasn't opposed to it! And he wasn't! He loved it! But I hadn't anticipated that afterwards he'd feel differently."

In a deft move, Lestrade rolled them over so Sherlock was in the middle.

"No!" the detective objected, pawing at Greg. "No! I was supposed to give you comfort after the distress I caused! I… He… I was supposed to comfort you!"

Truly puzzled, and more than a little upset at Sherlock's worry, Greg rolled over again. 

"Kiddo…" Lestrade said as quietly as he could when he had Sherlock positioned on his other side again. "Tell us. Tell me. Please?"

The story came out in fits and starts, and the more Lestrade and Mycroft heard, the more saddened they were. They'd thought John would understand about Sherlock, about how he was, about how he saw things, but apparently they had been too optimistic, even though they did both understand Sherlock's 'power play' could have been upsetting for John. 

"And he asked me before, a while ago now, if you ever got what you wanted, or if we just expected you to bend for us whenever we pleased."

Both Greg and Mycroft felt a chill shiver down their spines, Mycroft of guilt, Lestrade of realization. 

*****

They spent more than an hour quietly soothing each other. Greg held Sherlock and comforted him, while Sherlock did his best to his knowledge to comfort Lestrade in return. Mycroft watched over them both and figuratively jumped in whenever and wherever he could. Eventually, because Greg was the strong one and Sherlock the baby in their normal roles, Sherlock let himself be moved to the middle of the bed again, not objecting this time, so he could also be close to his brother.

Lestrade waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Sherlock fell asleep relatively easily after the emotional outpouring he was so unused to, exhausted by the feelings assaulting him that he had such trouble to try and understand, but Mycroft, with a decade of practice in close proximity to Greg, was more stubborn. Mycroft knew something was wrong, and could tell that it was mainly to do with that last comment of Sherlock's after his tale of his encounter with John, more then with the encounter itself. They both closed their eyes and pretended to rest, each hoping to fool the other into thinking they had fallen asleep, but no sleep came for either of them.

When around five in the morning, Greg quietly got up, Mycroft opened his eyes and stared after his lover as he held his little brother close and tried to think of how to make Gregory feel better.

*****

John woke from a restless doze around six, pulled on his robe and slippers, and made his way to the kitchen in search of much needed strong tea. He blinked a few times when he found Austin already there, complete with suit, and sliding a cup of tea and a cup of coffee across the kitchen island towards him. 

"Please take that to Mr Lestrade, Dr Watson," Austin said, "he is on the patio. He has been there for almost an hour."

John heard the admonishment in the tone, and accepted it. He took the two mugs, and brought them through to the main living room. The French windows were open, and Lestrade was clearly outlined in the rising sun, watching the mist from the evaporating dew on the grass as the summer sun warmed it up. He had a cigarette in hand, and when John approached, he saw several butts in the ashtray he knew was emptied every night. He put the mug of coffee next to Greg's hand, and sat down in another seat.

"I am very, very pissed at you right now, Watson," Greg finally said.

"I know."

"Do you know why?"

John sighed, then ventured his guesses.

"Because I brushed you off yesterday? Because of what happened with Sherlock? Because I didn't want to talk to you about it? Did he tell you?"

Lestrade chuckled mirthlessly and lit another cigarette, smoking it quietly as he sipped his coffee. When he was done with both, he leaned back into his chair and laced his fingers over his stomach, closing his eyes and deliberately ignoring his friend.

"You hurt Mycroft."

"I… What?" John said, astonished.

"What Sherlock did, it wasn't good. But you should've known to expect something like that from him. I warned you. Sherlock moves at his own pace, and you should know that. We could have worked that out. But you said," Greg's breath hitched, "you said I just bend for them whenever they want."

Bewildered, John thought furiously, then hit onto it. That time Sherlock had taken him into the master bedroom, and he'd asked how Greg would feel about him being there. 'Lestrade will want whatever makes us most comfortable', Sherlock had replied. 'That's kinda sad, you know? Does he ever get what he himself wants? Or does he always bend to accommodate you two?' John had said.

"Greg, I…"

"For ten years, I've been taking care of them. I've tried, and both failed and succeeded. Sherlock, for all that everyone may think otherwise, has accepted it, accepted that I won't leave, won't let him alone fighting the world. But Mycroft, well, he's different, learned a different lesson from birth. People say one thing, then do another. Even those people who are supposed to love you. For ten years, I've been showing him… everything. And he's never quite fully believed it, but he was starting to. But you know what they say, right, 'the bad stuff is easier to believe'? With lessons like that, of course it is. And then you casually grind everything I've worked for under your heel."

Greg swallowed.

"I know you apparently said it a while ago, but even then, you should have known better. You were here, you saw us together, you shared our fucking bed! You should have known that words like that, they're shared. And you just had to say that and make Mycroft think of every single fucking time I've given in on something, or relented, or smiled and accepted, and make him doubt whether I really wanted to, or he forced me! I have no fucking clue how to fix that. I just… have no fucking clue."

"My most beloved Gregory," a soft voice came from the French windows, lined with deep emotion, "there is nothing to fix."

*****

"Sherlock," Mycroft nudged his little brother after Gregory had left.

The consulting detective woke with a start, then smiled softly at his big brother.

"Morning, My."

"Good morning, my sweet. May I ask a question?" Mycroft said, taking full advantage of Sherlock's sleepy honesty, his inability to lie and obfuscate when just awoken.

"Hmmm."

"What you said last night, about John Watson asking whether Gregory just bent for us whenever we wanted, what was the context?"

And Sherlock told him, about wanting John to join them in bed, the four of them, and being nervous about asking. About John laughing and questioning what Lestrade would think of that, finding John in his bed.

"And about the night before last? What do you think John felt about that? How do you feel about it?"

"Felt good," Sherlock snuffled into Mycroft's shoulder. "We were both excited. I didn't do anything really inappropriate, My, I just talked. And he liked it, he really did. Asked me to do it again sometime, when we were more used to having intercourse with each other."

Mycroft hid a small smile at that little piece of information, and soothed his little brother back to sleep before slipping out of the bed to find Gregory.

*****

Lestrade's sad eyes fixed on Mycroft as soon as he turned around.

"My, I…"

"Sherlock's right about many things," Mycroft said as he approached the two men, then wrapped his arms around Greg from behind and sighed in pleasure as the Inspector's hands immediately came up to hold him return, "and one of them is that you always assume things are your fault. Or yours to fix."

Austin came out with two fresh mugs of tea and a coffee, taking away the two used ones. Mycroft walked around Greg's chair and slid into his lap, wrapping his arms around him and tucking his face into Greg's neck. John started to get up, intending to leave the two their privacy.

"No, stay, John," Mycroft said, and John settled down again.

"I just woke Sherlock and asked him some questions."

Lestrade frowned.

"We promised we wouldn't do that unless it was necessary."

"It was necessary, dearest, and I'm certain he will not mind when I tell him later."

"Okay?" Lestrade said hesitantly.

"He told me the context of the remark John made that worried us both. I will not deny it concerned me deeply. But I had a few hours during the night to think on it, and I decided I had never seen any dishonesty or true reluctance in you when I made a request of you. Except maybe when it involved dressing you in a proper tuxedo." 

He smiled carefully at Gregory.

"I do believe you, my love. Despite my upbringing, I do believe you care. About me. About my brother. I believe you."

Lestrade gasped and smiled, then tightened his arms around Mycroft.

"Of course I do. I do. I love you."

John gave them their moment and pointedly looked away while he sipped his freshly brewed tea.

"John," Mycroft said eventually, and when John turned around, Mycroft was still perched onto Greg's lap, but a little less intimate. "Please do not antagonize Gregory again? We have already had so many hurdles to overcome, and I would not wish to add to them."

"I'll try," John replied quietly.

"The business yesterday at the museum?" Mycroft asked, picking up the two remaining mugs and handing one to Lestrade, sipping from the other himself.

"That was… Look… I'm not used to be questioned about my sex life, okay! I already told Anthea this!"

"Contrary to popular belief, my dear Anthea and I do not completely share one mind. Not every word spoken into one of her delicate ears reaches mine immediately."

"Careful," Greg growled playfully, "speak about Anthea that way and I might get jealous!"

"Whatever for?" Mycroft was truly bewildered. "She is, no doubt, a stunning specimen of female humanity, Gregory, but other than her mind, she does not interest me!"

"Yeah, don't ever tell her that!" Greg managed to get out before he devolved into laughter, and John joined him in chuckles.

With a little more talk, the three of them made their peace, and showed up to breakfast at nine appropriately dressed for a visit to the cider mill.

*****

"Oh, this is stunning!" Sally breathed as she stepped out of the car, her eyes fixed on the old mill and the lake behind. Anthea wrapped an arm around her waist, and all of them politely ignored it, smiling to themselves.

"Mr Holmes!" Alex Desmond exclaimed, striding towards them with his hand already held out for a vigorous shake. Mycroft returned it with an honest smile.

"Mr Desmond, how are you?"

"Everything is well, Mr Holmes! And even better now ya've come to grace us with your company!"

"Well, I do believe you enticed Gregory to a visit with new brews to taste."

"I did, I did! Glad it worked! Greg, good to see ya!" He shook Lestrade's hand.

"And Mr Sherlock! Great ya wanted to come again so soon. Dr Watson." He shook with them both.

"Lovely Miss Anthea," he kissed her hand instead of shaking it.

"Oh, you charmer, you," she giggled girlishly. "This is Sally Donovan."

Alex kissed her hand as well.

"Miss Donovan, I'm Alex Desmond, at your service." He wiggled his eyebrows playfully.

"Mr Holmes, Mrs Holmes!" he then said, spotting them behind the others. "What a surprise! Lovely to see ya!"

"Mr Desmond," Father replied, taking his hand and smiling brightly. 

"Well, come on then! New brews await!" Alex exclaimed, taking them all to the shed next to the mill.

*****

They had barely been seated at the long tables in the shed and supplied with the first of many glasses of cider, when Amelia Desmond came striding over. Sally almost collapsed in laughter as Amelia engulfed Sherlock into a matronly embrace that buried his face in her ample bosom, then did the same to Mycroft. The others were hugged and kissed as well, though less intimately. Amelia sat down with them and chatted happily enough with everyone, though she too kind of avoided Mrs Holmes. Then they went for the tour.

It was mostly for Sally's benefit, she understood. The others had had the tour at least once before, though they still laughed at Alex's jokes and funny stories about the mill and its workers. Every glass of cider tasted delicious, though they were a little less plentiful than for John's first visit, and when at noon they returned to the shed, she complimented Mr Desmond profusely as they stood slightly apart from the others. 

"That's lovely of ya, lass," he smiled at her, raising his glass to toast her, which she happily accepted.

"It was most kind of you to pay so much attention to me, Mr Desmond. I… I've not been…"

He grasped her hand and spoke quietly.

"Good things happen when Mr Holmes and Mr Sherlock like someone, lovely Ms Donovan." Then his seriousness turned back into his cheeky tour guide persona. "Come, Ms Donovan, back to the table with ya! It's time for the new brew, and we need the expertise of the Scotland Yard!"

Lestrade and the others cheered, emptying their glasses in the toast to be ready for the new brew. It was magnificent. The taste was both subtle and flavorful, and it went down as smooth as the most expensive whiskey. No one could find fault with it, and Mycroft finished his glass before anyone else, which made Alex's eyes shine proudly. That was quite the compliment. 

"A trip to the island, Mr Holmes?" Alex asked at last.

"Yes," Mycroft said, "yes, that would be lovely. If it's not an inconvenience, of course."

"Nonsense, Mycroft!" Amelia exclaimed. "Scott and Alex will be happy to ferry you over there and back again!"

Mr and Mrs Holmes chose to stay behind, and Mother asked Amelia about her rose garden, a favorite topic of them both, so the three of them went to the house and garden while the others set off for the island. Scott rowed Sherlock and John, same as last time, while Alex ferried the other four in a larger motorized boat. When Alex announced he and his son would take the motorboat to the other side and check some things in the orchard for an hour or so, John asked Sherlock if they could stay in the row boat and he would row him around the island. Sherlock glanced at his brother and Lestrade, then nodded in agreement.

Mycroft and Greg immediately set off for the meadow in the center, while Anthea took Sally's hand for a stroll around the tiny island, intending to end up in the meadow with her later as well. 

*****

John pushed off and started slowly rowing. Sherlock leaned back with his eyes closed, and John gave him some time.

"Did I push you too far, John," he finally said. "This is difficult for me. But when I upset you, don't take it out on Greg. Or Mycroft."

"That wasn't my intention at all, Sherlock," John replied softly. "Could you look at me, please?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, and John felt immediately better for having that gaze on his again.

"Greg only asked me how I was doing, and I was tense and overreacted. I'm not used to sharing about my personal life or feelings that much. In the Army, you don't, because even though those are your buddies, your brothers, you don't want them to see you as weak. As a doctor, you don't, because a lot of what you do and say is confidential. In both environments, it's better to be seen as cool, calm and collected, otherwise it undermines your authority."

He rowed in silence for a bit.

"There's been a lot of sharing going on, between all four of us, and I'm still trying to get used to that. You know Greg and I are friends, and we've shared a lot over the years, most of it about you, by the way. But we've never talked about things that were that intimate. I know why he wouldn't talk to me about Mycroft, but even if he hadn't been in a relationship with your brother, but with someone else, or dating, he wouldn't have told me intimate details. Hell, I dated, but I'd never dream of telling him more than that my date and I had fun, or it had been miserable. I certainly wouldn't tell him we'd ended up in bed together and then describe exactly what we'd said and done."

Sherlock assessed him, and John kept his face honest and open.

"And I know he wasn't asking for that about you and me, but in that moment, while I was already tense, it felt like it, and I snapped at him a little. I'm sorry for that, and I've apologized to him, and to your brother. And I apologize to you as well, for causing you distress."

"Thank you, for doing that for them," Sherlock responded quietly. "Do you… do you want me to apologize to you? For what I did?"

"Would you mean it?"

Sherlock bit his lip.

"No, not really."

John couldn't help but smile a little.

"Then don't."

"But I upset you."

"A bit. But you've upset me before, and you'll do it again, and when that happens, you and I talk about it, okay?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Alright, John."

"Good. Are we good?"

Sherlock smiled.

"We're good."

"Then can you come over here and kiss me?"

Sherlock's eyes lightened and he flung himself at John, kissing him enthusiastically, so much so that he almost rolled the small boat over. Once they'd settled the boat again, they laughed and all was right in their little world again.

*****

Mycroft and Lestrade quickly made it to their favorite spot in the little meadow, and without regard for his clothing, Mycroft laid down in the grass next to Gregory. Lestrade had his eyes closed in the sunshine, one arm tucked under his head, and held the other arm to the side. Taking the hint, Mycroft rolled into him and put his head on Gregory's shoulder, sighing contentedly when Greg's arm closed around him. He drew figures and words in foreign languages on Lestrade's chest with his long fingers.

"You're still unsettled, Gregory. Tell me how to make it better?"

"Nah. Well, yeah, but…" Lestrade sighed. "There's nothing you can do, My, I don't think. It's just… Things seem to be so, well, more intense these last couple of weeks."

"How do you mean?"

"Hear me out, okay?"

Mycroft nodded against Greg's chest, not looking up, knowing this would be easier if they didn't look at each other.

"Okay. Well, for ten years, it's been you, Sherlock and me. And we've had our ups and downs, and there were crises at work and at home. But those always came in ones and twos, and we could handle that. Even when Sherlock was gone, and even when Mary was killed. But ever since last year, since," he swallowed, "since Sherrinford, it's been different."

He felt Mycroft tense.

"No," Lestrade said, hugging Mycroft closer, "don't do that. You promised to hear me out."

Greg felt his lover consciously try to relax.

"While work was going along as usual for both of us, in private we didn't get to really settle. Your parents, mostly; both of us worrying about Sherlock seeing your sister; Sherlock and John getting closer again. It put an emotional strain on us, all three of us, that we put to the background but was always there. We never resolved it. And now these last few weeks, it's not coming in ones and twos, it's like a waterfall. It just keeps pouring. Both personal and work. First, letting John in. Sherlock and John taking those first steps, finally. Your parents. The bombings. You and Anthea getting taken and hurt. Your parents again. The Chief Constable and the threat against me, which, by the way, I do realize was more a threat against you, I was just the pawn in the play. Sherlock pushing John and John pushing back. There's a lot of stuff going on right now, on all fronts, and we barely manage to patch up one thing before another happens."

Mycroft continued tracing his fingers over Lestrade's chest, now writing soothing words in every language he knew.

"I try to be a rock for you, for both of you, but even I'm reeling sometimes. When I think how easily I could have lost you, when you were taken. Or how easily I could have lost my job, a job I love and have worked so hard for, devoted my life to. And I know you would've made sure I landed on feet, but still. So yes, I'm unsettled. I see the progress with your parents, your father mostly, but your mother's trying too. I see Sherlock taking steps we'd never have expected of him even a year ago, trying and sometimes failing. I see John, confident at times and completely lost at others. And I see you, being so brave."

Mycroft huffed incredulously.

"Yes, you being brave. Trying to let your brother find his own way. Letting your parents in yet again even though you suspect it will cost you. Including Sally, for which I never properly thanked you. I know that scares you, another outsider knowing such personal things about you. And her and your Anthea, you know, exploring things, that's gotta be scary for you too, thinking Anthea's going to divide her attention. And I'm supposed to be there to tell you everything's going to be alright, it's all going to be fine. But I can't trust myself right now."

Alarmed, Mycroft tried to sit up, but Lestrade held him tight.

"No, don't."

He raised his hand to brush through Mycroft's hair.

"Like I said, I'm reeling too. I think your father's genuine, but I can't be sure. I think your mother's trying, but I just can't trust my reading her intentions correctly. I think Sherlock can handle this, but I just don't know. I think John would fit and we can all work this out, but…" he sighed. "He mistook my concern for him as prying for details. A year ago, two months ago, I would have sat there and told him that wasn't what I was asking. Now, I got upset, felt hurt that he would think that of me, and walked away. I…"

Mycroft waited.

"I've been insecure, these last few weeks, and every single thing that happened chipped away at my confidence. That's why I've been so… emotional about things. I mean," he huffed, "I know you love me, and then I cried and clung to you like a baby when I found out you'd told the Queen about me. I questioned your motives for trying a little something different in our - very satisfactory! - sex lives. I see something behind every comment made, even from you. I hate that! I want to just be us again, you and me and Sherlock, and John if he wants, but be us! To know that I can tease the two of you without being afraid of hurting someone's feelings! Accept whatever is said here at home without looking for a hidden meaning or motive! It's driving me mad!"

When Greg had stayed silent for a bit, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Gregory? May I speak now?"

Lestrade chuckled.

"I never really expected you to be quiet through all of that, to be honest."

"It's true, you have been our rock through all these years, and we can never repay you for that. But… let us cushion you now? Let us put a dam in the river so the waterfall trickles down to a manageable shower. Let us give you our words instead of just our deeds to show you our care. For so long, you have been taking care of us, bending for us…" when he felt Lestrade take a breath, Mycroft shushed him, "an unfortunate phrase but not entire inaccurate. It is your nature to be accommodating to those you love. But never, never, Gregory, never did we think you could be forced into anything you truly opposed. You have opposed us plenty of times, told us off like little children when we got carried away with delusions of grandeur about our own cleverness."

Now Mycroft did sit up, and shifted so he could look down into Gregory's face, brushing his cheeks until he opened his eyes.

"Let us love you. Let me love you as you deserve to be loved and cherished. Let us protect this precious heart and soul that are big enough to not only carry one, but two of us. At least until you find your equilibrium again. And I hope forever afterwards."

"Mycroft…" Lestrade whispered, grasping the hand Mycroft had laid on his chest and bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

"We'll find our way out, my dearest Gregory. We will! You and Sherlock and I. Anthea, John. Even the others."

"See," Greg croaked, wiping away a tear that escaped the corner of his eye, "that's what I mean. There I go again, eyes leaking like a faucet."

"You are entitled, my darling. And if you think that showing your tears is any less full of strength than showing us your unwavering support, you are sorely mistaken. A man such as you, with all your experiences, capable of such emotion is a true testament to inner power. It is both humbling and divine."

"My, I…"

Mycroft laid back down, and this time it was he who cradled the detective inspector in his arms, brushing through his hair with one hand and rubbing circles on his lower back with the other.

"Cry, sweetheart," he whispered. "Let it all out. Cry all you want for as long as you need. I shall only think you stronger and respect you more for it. Cry onto me and let me soak in your tears, then let me kiss them away with the love and devotion you've earned many times over. Oh, my dearest Gregory!"

*****

"I thought you said he was going to be alright!" Sally hissed quietly from where she and Anthea were standing at the edge of the meadow in the shadows under the trees. They couldn't hear what was being said, but it was clear to her Lestrade was having some kind of breakdown.

"He will be. He is, now," Anthea responded equally silently, grasping Sally's hand again and holding her back from going to her boss. "That's not a breakdown," Anthea said with quiet awe, "that's catharsis."

They looked for a few more moments, and when Sally didn't see any obvious signs of distress in Lestrade other than the crying, she let Anthea drag her back to the jetty where they'd be picked up later, giving the two men their peace.

They found Sherlock and John already there, the row boat carefully tied off, and the two of them rolling in the sand of the tiny beach, kissing each other. Anthea hesitated, but something told her it was right to interrupt.

"Sherlock?"

Her tone froze Sherlock immediately. He ceased his kissing and looked up.

"My brother? Greg?"

"I have a feeling you're needed in the meadow."

Sherlock got up and brushed off the sand, then looked apologetically at John.

"Go!" John said, and Sherlock strode off into the bushes.

John joined the two ladies on the jetty.

"You going to tell me what that's about?" he asked Anthea.

"No," she simply said.

Sally hesitated, but Anthea nearly crushed her fingers she was still holding, and she kept quiet.

"Alright," John said after a moment, then sat himself down next to them. "So, you two have fun?"

"Not as much as you, apparently," Sally winked.

"Pity for you!" John exclaimed.

"Later, Sally," Anthea said huskily, though she was still a little distracted. "I promise."

"Oooh! Look at you two!" John giggled, deliberately keeping the tone light, and laughing and chatting with Sally until either their boat ride, or the others of their party, came to join them.

*****

Sherlock stood for a moment at the edge of the meadow, reading both his brother and Lestrade as they lay there, mired in emotion. 

'Bloody feelings!' Sherlock sniffed to himself, 'The world would be so much easier without them!'

Then he gently walked over to the pair. Mycroft was looking at him, but Lestrade was lost in tears. Sherlock reached them and knelt down, softly running a hand over Greg's flank. It took a moment for the additional touch to register, but when it did, Greg looked up. Sherlock gave him a small smile, and was immediately engulfed in a tight hug, the kind he loved from Lestrade. And sometimes his brother. And maybe John. But definitely no one one else!

Holding the inspector close, Sherlock had a silent conversation with his brother over Lestrade's calming but still teary form.

'What happened?'

'Purging fears and insecurity.'

'From Lestrade?'

'Even rocks break sometimes, brother, especially under the force of a waterfall.'

'You're explaining that later.'

'I shall. I think he is nearly done. Can you hold for a little longer?'

Sherlock looked down at the now quieting man.

'For Greg? I can hold however long he needs me.'

Lestrade chuckled.

"Can you two stop talking about me when I'm right here?"

"No one said a word, Gregory."

"Not out loud, maybe. But I can hear the two of you talking even in silence. You know, like a dog hearing one of those whistles?"

"I do wish you'd stop comparing yourself to animal life, dearest. You are so much better than that."

"Aren't humans just animals too?" Lestrade asked, rolling onto his back and trying to wipe his face clean. Mycroft immediately pulled out a handkerchief and started to aid him.

"He's got you there, brother mine. Although I fervently pray I shall never hear the phrase 'Oh Mycroft, you're such an animal!' in my lifetime."

They stared at him. Greg lost it first, dissolving into huge gales of laughter. Mycroft sniffed, twitched and bit his lips, and then gave in, laughing loudly. Sherlock really didn't think it was all that funny - he'd been quite serious - but this was certainly better than the icky emotions he'd read earlier, and he gracefully acquiesced to gleeful chuckles.

*****

When the three of them made it back to the jetty, Greg having donned his sunglasses to hide his reddened eyes, Alex and Scott were also already there. They'd heard the motor of the boat, so it wasn't that much of a surprise. The ladies had taken off their sandals and were splashing their feet in the water as the five of them chatted. When the group was complete, Anthea asked if she and Sally could be taken across by Scott. The boy's eyes widened, and a big grin showed his willingness to ferry two such lovely ladies in his little row boat. The four men were across in a jiffy in the motored one with Alex, and smiled as they saw Scott languidly rowing a detour, just so Anthea and Sally would keep chatting to him. 

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes," Alex started.

"Don't worry, Mr Desmond," Mycroft interrupted him. "Anthea often has that effect."

They smiled and walked over to the shed, where they were served more of Alex' new brew.

Hearing the others were back, Mr and Mrs Holmes and Amelia joined them, also taking a fresh brew. Mrs Holmes spoke admiringly of Amelia's roses, and the brothers were quite civil with her, having heard rose talk for many years. Father was very complementary of the new brew to Alex, and by the time Scott and the ladies arrived, the Desmonds were a little more friendly with the elder Holmeses. It was still Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg though who got the extended hugs and kisses from Amelia, and were invited back as soon as they wanted.

In the car on the way back, they were all gratified to see Sherlock once again seated with John, though he and Greg, who was nestled against Mycroft, had both stretched out their legs to keep their feet in contact.

*****

"What was it we're going to do now, again?" Sally asked after a while, Anthea playing with Sally's curls. "It's just, I'm wondering what to wear? I haven't got many outfits left, to be honest."

"No worries about that, Sal. I'm sure Anthea could lend you something, if needed," Greg chuckled.

"Gregory!" Mycroft scolded playfully. "Propriety, please!" He turned to Sally. "Today is Anthea's feast."

"What? You're gonna eat someone?" Sally chuckled at Anthea, then blanched, then turned red as a tomato.

Anthea glared at the laughing men, who weren't doing a very good job of controlling themselves. John and Lestrade were snorting heavily with laughter, Sherlock was grinning like a madman, and Mycroft was rolling his eyes, muttering something that sounded like: 'Pffh! Yarders! No propriety whatsoever!'

"A joke from Mr Holmes, Sally. Do you like barbecue?"

"You mean sausages and burnt burgers? Sure, that's alright. We've got the weather for it, at least."

"Oh no, Sally," Anthea purred, kissing her cheek, "none of that. You'll see."

*****

When they arrived back at the house, Austin, William and Geoffrey came outside to greet them in shorts, shirts and slippers. The footmen looked good, young and supple with plenty of muscles, but Austin looked… weird. Not uncomfortable weird, just… weird. Sally'd only ever seen him in a full suit, but the shorts and shirt looked just as right on him as the suit did. Suddenly she could see him strolling along a beach in Australia in the sunset, surfers in the background and pretty young ladies vying for his attention around him. He looked good!

Mycroft didn't even blink an eye at the informality.

"Ah, Austin! Everything progressing to satisfaction?"

"Certainly, Sir," Austin replied while William and Geoffrey cheered when they saw the treasure of several cases of Alex Desmond's new brew in the trunk of the car, they and Greg grinning widely as they carried it inside to put on ice. "Everything is set up, Mrs Hudson and Christy are arriving in a few moments, and Geoffrey is patiently waiting for Miss Anthea to join him in the secrets of preparing Texas barbecue."

"Well then," Mycroft smiled as he walked inside, "let us not dawdle here! A quick wash and change for us and then we shall gladly join you!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Sally saw the two maids rushing from the kitchen towards the patio, one in a flimsy summer dress, the other in very short shorts and a fitted top, both carrying platters.

Sally hadn't brought anything that casual. She'd been expecting a weekend with Holmeses, so jeans were the most casual she'd taken along. Anthea, of course, gladly let her borrow something after a quick shower. Anthea opted for a wide but short skirt and a barely there top, and dressed Sally in tight leggings and a flowing top, knowing the Sergeant wouldn't want to wear a dress. Sally felt a bit self conscious, but the first thing she saw when she stepped onto the patio was Mycroft Holmes… in shorts and a sleeveless vest that clearly belonged to her boss. She laughed, merrily not derisively, and happily joined in the crowd.

Because it was a crowd. She and Anthea were the last to arrive. Mrs Weaver and Amanda were working together with the two maids, Jenna and Marie, setting out huge amounts of food on the patio table, which had been extended to comfortably seat all of them. Lestrade, Watson and William were standing by a very large barbecue grill, supposedly tending it, but really just having a beer and playing with fire. Geoffrey and Sherlock stood at a side table, and eagerly gestured Anthea over, and began mixing spices, herbs and sauces in several combinations, and dipping meats into them. Sally couldn't help but laugh again at the sight of Sherlock in shorts and a tank top - clearly still very expensive ones - enthusing about the chemistry of barbecue with Anthea and Geoffrey. 

"May I offer you a drink, Ms Donovan?" Austin quietly said, sneaking up on her.

"Ah! Uhm… Yeah, sure. Gin & tonic? And please, call me Sally."

"Very well, Miss Sally." He smiled and returned moments later with a tall, frosty glass for her, then went back to overseeing the company.

"Sally!" Mycroft motioned her over. "May I present Mrs Martha Hudson, the landlady of 221B? I believe you've seen each other, but never been formally introduced. Mrs Hudson, this is Gregory's sergeant, Sally Donovan."

"Oh dear, Mycroft! I know who Sally is! You came to do that drugs bust just after John moved in. And I've seen you since then, always with Greg, aren't you?"

"Mrs Hudson," Sally said politely, shaking her hand. "You're right, yeah. Well, Lestrade's my DI, so, yeah, I'm usually with him."

"And this is Christy Everly, William's lovely wife. She is the most talented florist in the greater London area, as you can see proof of in the magnificent flower arrangements throughout the rooms of the house. Christy, may I present Sergeant Sally Donovan."

The heavily pregnant woman, a delicate beauty even in her last trimester, smiled widely and blushed at Mycroft's comments, laughing as she shook Sally's hand. 

"Don't tease me, Mr Holmes!" she chuckled.

Mycroft looked truly surprised.

"I assure you, my dear, I meant every word." He looked up and saw his brother playing with a bottle of hot sauce. "Sherlock! Please do keep the sauce off the tiles of the patio! You know how hard that particular brand is to clean!" And he strode off to snatch the bottle out of his brother's hand.

The three women grinned and were joined in their chuckles by the parents, who were sitting nearby, as they watched the two siblings argue over the bottle and the merits of hot sauce. Mrs Hudson looked sharply at Mrs Holmes, but her eyes softened just a little when she caught the honest expression on the woman's face.

"Come here, Sally!" Anthea called over. "I need your interrogation skills to wheedle all the barbecue secrets out of our Geoffrey!"

"Excuse me, ladies," Sally laughed, and made her way over.

"I'll never give up my secrets!" Geoffrey exclaimed menacingly with a wink. "No matter what you do to me!"

"We'll see about that, boyo!" Anthea threatened laughingly, pushing him gently back against the trellis. "Do you really think you can resist us?"

Sally came to stand next to Anthea and looked at him sternly.

"Well, ehm…" he faltered, then let his eyes trail over the two ladies in front of him, "I might be persuaded?"

*****

The rest of the afternoon and evening followed in much the same fashion. There was more laughter and pleasant conversation than Sally had been part of in a very long time, and it had certainly been a while since she'd felt so accepted and free. They spent many hours just eating and talking and mingling. There were no assigned seats. Everyone switched chairs every now and then, even the parents, and the range of topics up for discussion was large. Sometimes people spoke one on one, but most of the time it was a free for all. 

By the time none of them could eat a single bite more, the table was abandoned by most in favor of the more comfortable loungers. The remainder of the food was put away, and since the sun was setting, the braziers were brought out and set alight. 

Mrs Hudson's eyes gleamed proudly when Sherlock and John settled onto a lounger together, wrapped up in each other. When Lestrade and Mycroft did the same and no one, not even Mrs Holmes, seemed to mind, Sally didn't feel so strange about settling on one with Anthea. After more talk and drinks, the evening finally started to come to an end. Mrs Hudson retired, staying in one of the guest rooms, of course, and William took Christy to their home on the grounds. Mr and Mrs Holmes said goodnight too, as did the others after a while, until only the six of them were left, with Austin still standing guard.

"Austin," Mycroft said kindly, "please do retire to bed. You've had a long day."

"I retire when you do, Mr Holmes."

"Not tonight, please, Austin? The braziers are all but burned out, everything has been cleaned, and if we should wish another drink, I'm certain we can manage by ourselves. Please. I should feel so much better if I knew you too had an enjoyable evening and a good night's rest."

Austin swallowed, then spoke softly.

"Thank you, Mycroft. I assure you, I had a great time tonight, as did everyone else. There's not many who would let us all be part of the family like that." He rested one hand on Mycroft's shoulder for just a moment, just long enough for a squeeze, and then adopted his formality again.

"Then I bid you goodnight, Sir. Ladies, gentlemen."

"Goodnight, Austin! And thank you!" All of them said as he retreated.

They didn't stay out there much longer, just one more drink and a little more talk.

*****

Anthea took Sally to bed first.

"I'd love to make love to you," she said as they reached their rooms, "but I'm just too stuffed with food and drink!"

Sally smiled, because she definitely felt the same.

"But… if you wanted to… I'd really like it if you would sleep in my bed again?"

Sally knew what that felt like too. She kissed Anthea's cheek.

"I'll just go wash up and change. I'll be with you in a few minutes, yeah?"

"Lovely, my pretty," Anthea sighed, and it was not long after that the both of them settled into the sheets and each other's arms to sleep the remainder of the night away.

*****

Lestrade made one last check of the braziers and the barbecue, making sure they were all out. When he was satisfied, he stretched and yawned.

"Well, that's me done in. I gotta get some sleep."

"Yes," Mycroft said softly, admiring his lover. "Please do." Neither of them made mention of the sleepless night they'd had before this day, or the catharsis Greg had gone through on the island which must have tired him out completely.

"Are you coming with me, My? I may need you to hold me up while I brush my teeth, or I'll collapse before I finish."

"In that case, consider me your faithful body servant. I wouldn't want your smile to lose it's pearly luster due to exhaustion. And hot sauce." He glared at Sherlock, who grinned.

"I cannot help it that Greg enjoys his choice of meat hot," he drawled at his brother. 

"Damn right I do!" Lestrade laughed, grabbing Mycroft around the waist and making sure everyone knew exactly what 'choice of meat' he was talking about. 

Mycroft chuckled, then sighed.

"I do not know whether to be flattered or appalled. Clearly time for me to rest as well, then. Take me upstairs, dearest?"

"I'll take you anywhere you want, My."

"Please!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Can we refrain from tepid sexual innuendo?"

"I do not know," Mycroft responded as seriously as he could. "Can we, Gregory?"

"Well, innuendo is all you're getting out of me tonight. I'm tired and stuffed and maybe just a teensy bit drunk. And even though you're really sexy, my Mycroft, I'm not getting up anytime before breakfast."

"It," Sherlock said.

"Hmmm?"

"It. Getting 'it' up."

Lestrade chuckled. 

"Actually, I meant both of those. I was trying to be delicate. Since you didn't want any further innuendo."

Sherlock groaned.

"Your sense of humor plummets in inverse equal to your alcohol intake."

"I love you too, kiddo. Come on, My."

They'd only just made it to the doors when Sherlock spoke again, but this time it was a question, even though he didn't phrase it as such, or even finish it.

"I'd like to…"

"Shouldn't you discuss that with John?" Mycroft asked quietly.

"Should I?"

"No." 

The definitive 'no' came from Mycroft and Lestrade at the same time. Sherlock smiled.

"And John?" he asked.

"John is always welcome if you want him there," Mycroft said.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured. "Both of you."

Mycroft and Lestrade nodded, and then left.

*****

"What was that?" John demanded.

Sherlock removed himself from the lounger he'd been sharing with John for the latter part of the evening, and stood, staring down at him.

"I'm spending the night in the master bedroom. I'd like you to join us. You're free to refuse."

"Sherlock!" John darted after the infuriating man as he tried to walk away, and grabbed his arm. "Sherlock! What the hell! Don't say something like that and then turn away from me. In fact, just don't turn away from me!"

"John, please don't make a scene. People are sleeping."

"I'm not making a scene!" John shouted, then breathed deeply to reign in his temper. "I'm not making a scene. You just… Okay, you know what? Fine. Go."

"So you're not joining us?"

John huffed.

"I don't think anyone really wants me to."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I want you to."

"Yeah? And how's your brother going to feel about that? And Greg?"

"They said they were fine with it."

"A ringing endorsement."

Sherlock frowned.

"John. I think you're not grasping the full measure of communication had just then."

"Oh, aren't I?"

"Obviously."

John rubbed his eyes.

"Explain?"

"I'm not sure I can."

"Wait… What?"

"You said that even though you and Greg were friends, you never discussed intimate details. Extrapolating from that, I cannot discuss with you the exact details of what just happened without obfuscation or breaking that rule."

"Intimate details about sex, Sherlock!"

"So private information regarding physical activities is off limits, but that of an emotional nature is not?"

"Sherlock!"

"I'm just trying to understand the rules here, John! Don't you want me to understand the rules of social interaction so I can follow them and not force you to apologize on my behalf whenever I don't?"

"I just… I don't get you!"

"Hardly anyone does. Don't blame yourself. I'm quite the mystery."

"What happened on the island?"

"Many things, I'm sure. For one, it's where we shared our first kiss."

John couldn't help but smile at that, then let his frustration rise again.

"Today, Sherlock, today!"

"Ah! Well, plants grew in the sunlight, water lapped at its shores, it sank into the lake by approximately one hundredth of a millimeter. And an abundance of other things."

"With your brother and Greg. And you."

"I couldn't tell."

"You didn't know what was happening?"

"I did know, obviously. But I couldn't tell you. It was intimate. And apparently, that's not to be spoken of."

"Sherlock, please…"

"Mmmm, no, John. This was your rule and you've told me it only just today. I may delete it later, but for now, I shall adhere to it."

"I'm too drunk to deal with this," John sighed.

"Then you should get to bed and sleep. Come. I know the perfect bed for us to sleep in. It has almost silky smooth cotton sheets, the softest pillows that still offer neck support, me, and a certain intrusive busybody and a fairly competent detective inspector who are probably wondering what's taking us so long. We really shouldn't keep them waiting."

Joh couldn't help it. He laughed.

"Yeah, alright. Let's go, then."

After having changed in his room, John hesitated at the door to the master bedroom. The other three were already in bed, and a space just his size was left open at Sherlock's side.

"Come on, John! Close the door so we can get some sleep."

Seeing Mycroft and Greg nod drowsily in confirmation, John closed the door, slid into the bed, and was asleep in seconds.

*****

All four of them slept through the night and further into the morning than their usual waking time, a result of the combination of lots of food and drink, lots of emotions and the restless previous night. They barely made it down in time for breakfast at nine, which was a light serving that day due to the previous evening's excess. They were all still a little tired despite the good night's rest, and feeling not exactly hung over, but a little slow. Anthea noticed immediately, of course.

"Sir?" she asked.

"Yes, dear?"

"I know we agreed we'd all go shopping today, but I'd like Sally's and my new dresses for this evening to be a surprise. Would you mind if Sally and I headed out alone?"

Giving her a grateful smile, he nodded.

"Of course, Anthea. I don't think the four of us need anything new right now, and we would certainly enjoy being surprised by your new frocks. Be sure to take my card, won't you dear?"

"It has already found its way into my wallet, Sir."

She turned to the parents.

"Would you like to come shopping with us, Mr and Mrs Holmes?"

They turned to their sons, each trying to see what answer they would want. Did they want them to stick around, or did they want them gone for the day? It was Mother who decided.

"That's lovely of you to offer, Anthea, but I too am not in need of anything new. And surely, two such vibrant young ladies as you do not need a pair of oldies trailing along. No, you two go ahead, we'll happily spend a quiet day at home."

It was tiny and it was gone in less than a second, but they all saw it, Mycroft's smile. Mrs Holmes inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. She'd chosen right. They were finally, after all these weeks in Mycroft's house for their protection, going to spend a leisurely day with their boys, no outings and no others around. Perhaps get a chance to talk honestly with each other.

John was surprised, Sherlock less so but still somewhat. Lestrade wasn't, because he understood what Mycroft was doing. Mycroft had promised him that he and Sherlock would build a dam to stop the waterfall, and this was Mycroft rolling the first boulders into the water to stem the flow of the river. He took Mycroft's hand and kissed it, then returned to his breakfast.

*****

After Anthea and Sally had left, Mrs Hudson had been sent home in a car, and Mr and Mrs Holmes had each picked a book and sat on the patio to read for a while, Lestrade and John decided to go to the gym to clear their heads and strain their bodies a bit to get rid of the lethargy. Sherlock followed Mycroft into his office, and closed the door.

"Explain," he said simply as he sat down over the chess game already set up.

Mycroft moved a white pawn.

"What have you deduced of what happened yesterday on the island?"

"Greg has been uneasy about something, or rather, a few somethings. I gather it is about the threat to his job, about your abduction, and about our parents."

They played swiftly as they talked.

"Also about John, and about you, and about the two of you together," Mycroft added.

"Me?"

"Of course. He always worries about you, even more so now you've changed your relationship with John."

"I've sensed unease in him for longer than these events."

"Quite correctly, as it appears. We have both been anxious about your visits to our sister."

"I already told you, I do not intend to go there often any more, if at all."

"I know, and we're both grateful for that. It wasn't meant in that way. I meant to imply it has been an additional worry in the background."

"Additional to what?"

"His normal level of worry about you and me both. And about our parents. That has also been there ever since my relation with them deteriorated."

"Since Sherrinford."

"Indeed. The events, as you know, unsettled me. It seems I never quite recovered fully."

Sherlock studied him for a moment, before moving his rook.

"I know you didn't. I take it you thought you did?"

"It would appear so. A foolish notion, I now realize. I had not noticed I had fallen back into certain patterns that were there at the beginning of our relationship."

Mycroft took Sherlock's queen, leaving his king impossible to defend, and Sherlock conceded the game. It had only taken a few minutes. Sherlock sat back in his chair, wanting to give his brother his full attention, and Mycroft did the same. Both dropped their masks completely, and were dreadfully honest with each other. This hadn't happened in years.

"You've been less certain of yourself," Sherlock said bluntly. "After what you perceive to be your failure at Sherrinford. I did notice an eight percent increase in the time you need to make a decision work related."

"And when I have a doubt in one area…"

"You start to doubt yourself in others. I know. So you've been less certain in your relationship with Greg as well. You hid it admirably. I had not really noticed it there. Though looking back, I can see it now."

"Gregory did notice, of course."

"Yet another additional point of worry for him."

"Indeed. He confessed yesterday that the constant additional worries had taken their toll on him, made him question himself and his judgment. Said we used to have just one or two crises at a time, and managed to fix them before the next one arose. But these last few weeks… He painted a rather lovely picture, actually, for such a dire concept. That the last few weeks have been like a waterfall, constant and unrelenting."

Sherlock nodded, immediately understanding the comment Mycroft had made during that silent conversation they'd had over Lestrade's still quietly crying body on the island.

"Ah. He's been our rock, and the waterfall broke him."

"Perhaps cracked more than broke, but essentially, yes."

"How do we protect him? Divert the river?"

"What if the diverted river finds another rock to crack? Like John, for instance?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate to let his brother see the anguish he felt at that thought. Mycroft sent him a comforting look.

"It would be best, of course, to plug the source well and stop the river entirely. But considering the various sources that cause this river…"

"Yes, that would be impractical."

"So I propose we build a dam."

"And today," Sherlock's eyes flickered for a moment in the general direction of the patio and his parents, "is the start of that dam."

"That is my intention, if you are amenable?"

Without a moment's thought, Sherlock nodded. 

"Of course. It is imperative. But brother… dams break sometimes, and then comes a devastating flood."

"Surely you and I together can construct a dam that will last for a hundred years at least, and by then, we shall all already be dead."

After a moment, they both started giggling, then laughing.

"A lovely picture indeed, my dearest brother," Sherlock wheezed through his laughter. 

Mycroft wiped at his cheeks to brush away tears of mirth.

"I can see it now," he said, "the four of us resting together in our grave, and then the deluge comes, and washes our bones away to rest in a jumbled mess together, entangled with each other forever."

Sherlock sobered a little.

"Four?" he asked. "You are including John? Both of you?"

"Oh, my sweet little brother," Mycroft sighed. "Of course. Anyone who truly loves you, we cannot help but love as well. It will take some work, more boulders for the dam, but eventually, with dedication, we'll have not only a foundation strong enough to withstand whatever is thrown at it, but a structure so magnificent it will hold back the deluge until after we are long gone."

Then they started giggling again, and it took them quite a while to settle down enough to put their masks back up, and set out to find their lovers and their parents.

*****

"Greg," John said when they'd both finished their chosen workout and were cooling down with a bottle of energy drink, "at the risk of bringing up bad memories of the last time you asked me this question: are you okay?"

Lestrade sighed and took another sip.

"I don't know, really. Not yet. But I will be."

"What happened yesterday, on the island?" John hesitated before asking, knowing that he was doing exactly what he'd accused Greg of doing, asking too personal questions. But Lestrade didn't hesitate at all in answering.

"I cried my eyes out like a little baby."

John choked on his sip and coughed.

"What?"

"Yep. Tears and snot and everything. Couldn't have been pretty. You didn't notice Mycroft's shirt?"

John hadn't noticed.

"His shoulder was fairly covered in my pathetic despair."

"Why?" John finally asked quietly.

"I reached my breaking point," Lestrade answered openly. "Something had to give. I'm glad it was me, and not Mycroft or Sherlock again."

"But what could have… wait… 'Sherlock again'?"

When Greg drew breath to answer, John held up his hand.

"No, don't you tell me. Either he will, or I will ask him about it someday. We were talking about you. What happened?"

"Reached the end of my tether. For over a year, I've been so worried, about both of them. And then everything that happened in the last few weeks, it… it was just too much."

"You're a stronger man than I am, Greg."

Lestrade humphed.

"Strong men don't cry? Did they teach you that in the Army? I'm not ashamed of my tears, John."

"That's not… no, that's not what I meant."

But Lestrade ignored him.

"I've been a little emotional lately, everything coming at us one after the other, but I'm not ashamed of that. So I cry sometimes, so what? Better that I cry than hit someone in the face, isn't it?"

"Of course."

"So I don't care that you see that, or know that. But don't judge me for it, because then I will have to hit something, and you'd better hope it's the punching bag and not your face."

"Greg," John dared to put his hand on the man's sweaty arm. "Look at me." 

Lestrade looked up.

"I'm not judging you. I admire you. When I said you're stronger than me, I meant it as a compliment, not a judgment. I've always held back emotions, you know, Army, doctor; cool, calm and collected. But you… you feel free to show your emotions. And you're the stronger for it."

Greg studied him.

"Yeah, well… I guess I just felt safe here, and I didn't think…"

"Wait, you 'felt' safe here? Past tense?" John stared into his eyes. "Is that past tense because of me?"

Lestrade looked at him guiltily.

"A little? Look, what was it Mycroft said to you about Sherlock that first time he kidnapped you? 'I worry about him constantly'. Yeah, that's him and me both, mate. We had a balance, and you've disrupted it. That isn't your fault, by the way! That's nobody's fault. But it was just another straw on the camel's back, and this particular camel just had enough yesterday, and laid down and cried."

Without giving Greg a chance to reject him, John pulled the man into a sideways hug. He felt Lestrade tense for a second, then relax into it.

"I'm not gonna cry now," Greg finally huffed.

"I hope not," John said, "I wouldn't want you associate hugging me with crying every time we do it."

"Every time?"

"I'm thinking it'll happen again now and then. You like hugging and touching. You're always touching Mycroft, even in your sleep. And Sherlock seeks you out for hugs, likes your proximity, which we both know is very rare. So I'm hoping you and I can form a more intimate bond together as well, if we're going to share watching out for the Holmeses."

"Whoa! Intimate?" Greg said, chuckling.

"Yeah," John laughed, "let me tell you about that." And he shared what he'd said to Sherlock about Greg and John not discussing intimate details about their love lives, and Sherlock throwing it back in his face when he'd asked what had happened on the island.

By the time the story finished, they were both laughing and relaxed. Another boulder in the dam.

"Come on, let's get showered and changed, and see what the others are up to."

*****

They found the four Holmeses on the patio, Mother and Father still reading, or at least pretending to, and the two brothers leaning back in the sunshine and openly smoking, something they'd never done in front of Mummy before, a small act of defiance. 

"Good talk?" Lestrade asked as he lit up a smoke for himself.

"Sherlock and I had a very agreeable discussion. We've only just come out here ourselves."

Silence fell again, and John waited until the three had put out their cigarettes.

"How about a game?" he proposed, hoping that distracting their hands with something would lead to more open talk.

"Croquet?" Sherlock asked.

"Excellent choice, brother mine. Father, Mother, would you care to play?"

"I'd love to," Father smiled, and Mother nodded her agreement. 

Sherlock and John went to fetch the equipment and set out a course. They only had four hammers, so would need to share, but that turned out to be a good thing. Every time someone had their turn and went to hand over their hammer to one of the next players in line, little conversations happened. Nothing much of consequence was said. Lestrade stood with Mr Holmes for a minute or two as he handed over his hammer and they waited for John to take his turn, and the older man remarked on how well Mycroft looked and that he could tell that was Greg's loving influence. John brought his hammer to Mother, and she said Sherlock seemed much calmer now than he'd ever been, and thanked John for his presence in Sherlock's life. Similar remarks were made between the brothers and their parents.

By the time they'd played three rounds, Mrs Weaver brought out a light lunch, and they all went back to the table to eat.

"Here, Mummy, let me carry your hammer for you," Mycroft offered.

"Thank you," she said, and Mycroft hesitated, feeling he wasn't thanked for just taking the hammer. They held back from the others for a moment.

"Mummy?"

"Thank you for all you've done for this family. For taking us in to protect us here, even though I know you could have easily had us brought elsewhere. Mycroft," she dared put her hand on his arm, "I can never apologize enough for all I've put you through. I see now the love you share with Greg, and how wonderful he's been for you, and you for him. I see your actions towards Sherlock, and how they come from your deep devotion to your brother. I see you making space for John, and even for us." She swallowed as she saw Mycroft blinking in confusion. "You truly are a remarkable boy, and I'm sorry I've not acknowledged that before."

Completely unsure how to respond with words, Mycroft offered her his arm, and brought her to the table.

Of course Lestrade and Sherlock noticed Mycroft's confusion, but remained silent about it through lunch. Afterwards though, Sherlock took charge.

"Come, Mummy, I should check on the bees and we could all do with a stroll."

He offered her his arm and she took it, walking off with him. The others followed, but a little behind to give them some space. Lestrade checked in with Mycroft, who gave a short summary of his mother's words, and John and Father chatted amiably behind them. 

"What did you say to my brother?" Sherlock asked fake pleasantly when he and his mother were a little ways ahead of the others.

She was honest, and repeated her comments word for word. 

"And the same goes for you, Sherlock. I truly am sorry for how I've hurt you and your brother, and Greg and John. I fear I will never be able to make amends. But can I hope for a fresh start?"

Sherlock walked quietly for a bit, then spoke bluntly as per usual.

"You'll never be able to make amends, the wounds are too deep and decades old. However, for the sanity of our partners, it would be preferable for us to have a cordial relationship with our parents. Therefore we have decided to be open to a reconciliation. But I warn you, Mother, one snide remark, one disapproving glare, and I'll show you exactly why you should be very grateful that Mycroft is the responsible adult out of the two us, and always has been. I am a vindictive man, which I guess I get from you, and far less forgiving than my brother. One wrong step towards those I hold dear, and you'll regret it forever."

She paused in her steps for a moment to look into her younger son's eyes, and swallowed again as she saw the fires of hell burning there. She nodded, and they resumed their stroll as if nothing had happened. How gravely had she misjudged her children? 

Mycroft, resented and thought to be made of ice, turned out to be a warm man who, with Gregory's help, had built a family of his own with people who loved and respected him, and who reached out to strangers like those two students in the park. 

Sherlock, adored and cherished, had a devilish fire in him that burned for the select few who had found their way in, and would not hesitate to unleash that fire for their protection against anyone, even her.

Eurus, beloved daughter, who could feel nothing. No ice, no fire, simply nothing.

While Mycroft reached out to others in ways that wouldn't be understood by most, Sherlock kept himself aloof to avoid forming connections that would force him to include others into his tiny circle of loved ones, and Eurus couldn't let anyone in, ever.

It was frightening. 

*****

When they reached the hives, Sherlock launched into an explanation, and they all listened carefully, even Mycroft and Greg, who'd heard it many times before. John was a little more relaxed around the bees than he had been the first time, and Father was glad to learn more of them after he'd seen Sherlock so animatedly with the old beekeeper some time ago. Mother watched and listened and continued learning.

After a while, they went on with their stroll. The pairings changed throughout, and every combination chatted in a friendly way with each other, without mentioning the serious subjects. They returned to the patio well over an hour later, and Austin brought out drinks for all. 

"There is one more thing I'd like to say here and now," Sherlock said. "It concerns our sister."

Everyone tensed.

"I have considered the situation carefully, and have already relayed my conclusions to Mycroft. I shall not be visiting again in the foreseeable future. I think it dangerous and unwise. There is no connecting with her anymore, and continued contact can only lead to further disaster. I shall brief Lady Smallwood of this, and urge you to cease your attempts to contact her as well."

Mycroft, Lestrade and John, though relaxing a little, still held their breath for the parents' reaction.

"Sherlock," Father said softly, "I too have decided I do not wish to visit her for now, and for the same reasons you mentioned. The more I've learned, the more I've thought it dangerous. Though she is my daughter and I shall always love her, I doubt anything positive can be gained from seeing her, from either side."

Anxious eyes turned to Mrs Holmes.

"It is clear to me this has been carefully considered, and your father and I have spoken about it. Though I won't deny it leaves me much saddened, I too believe it for the best to stop our attempted interactions. I shall not request further visitations from Lady Smallwood unless there is some change or reason to believe things might be otherwise."

"Good," Sherlock replied sternly.

"Thank you," Mycroft sighed in relief, and unconsciously reached out for Gregory, who grasped his searching hand and brought it to his lips for the by now familiar kiss of comfort and reassurance. Another boulder for the dam.

*****

They were still out on the patio when Anthea and Sally returned from their shopping trip by mid-afternoon. Anthea clearly saw the far more open and relaxed interactions between the four men and the parents, and breathed a sigh of relief. Sally felt the less icy atmosphere too, but she was very excited about her shopping, and her perky chatter was the key to breaking the last of the tension.

By the time she was describing the sixth shop Anthea had dragged her into, Lestrade laughed.

"Whoa, Sally! We get it! You had a good time, and we're all very happy for that. Don't give away all the details, alright? You wanted your outfit for tonight to be a surprise! And I know exactly what you mean, I have been shopping with a Holmes before, you know."

Sally blushed, thinking she'd overstepped, boring them all with her excitement. Anthea blushed too, but for an entirely different reason. Greg had equated her with a Holmes.

"Oh please, hellcat!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You've been a Holmes ever since you let my despicable brother seduce you into a life of politics."

She beamed at him.

"Thanks, moppet, that's one of the sweetest things you've ever said to me."

Sherlock grumbled as the others laughed.

*****

The four men went to the pool for a bit, while the two young ladies went to their rooms to take luxurious bubble baths and get ready for their night out. The parents stayed on the patio a little longer before also going up to change. According to tradition, they met in the downstairs hallway at seven before sharing another drink in the lounge, and would then set off to the restaurant.

Mycroft and Lestrade were there first, shortly followed by Sherlock and John. All four of them were in bespoke suits. This time, John had asked Sherlock for help dressing, and the appreciative looks his lover had given him, made John feel confident and relaxed. Mr and Mrs Holmes joined them next, she in a lovely evening frock and he also in a suit. Then Anthea and Sally appeared at the top of the stairs.

Lestrade had known Sally for many years, but it was almost as if he was looking at a completely different woman. The dress, clearly chosen by Anthea, clung to his Sergeant in provocative and enticing ways. He couldn't remember ever seeing her in a dress before, and she was beautiful. Anthea, of course, was the very definition of beauty in her own gown, as she usually was. The rapturous attention made Sally giggle a bit, but she and Anthea made their way carefully downstairs to be received with heartfelt compliments and appreciation from the men.

Over drinks in the lounge, Mycroft handed out gifts. Lestrade was used to this by now, knowing Mycroft could never let such an occasion pass without showing his appreciation, as he called it, in such a way. Lestrade received a tie pin this time, to match his handcuff cufflinks. Sherlock gave John a watch to replace his old one, and though John felt it to be far too extravagant, he loved it and gladly put it on. Mother was gifted with an elaborate hairpin that suited her usual coiffure perfectly, and Father got a new chain for his pocket watch, a feature he shared with his eldest son when wearing a bespoke suit.

Lestrade fidgeted a bit when Mycroft handed him a small box, Mycroft holding a similar one. 

"Ladies," Mycroft smiled at Anthea and Sally, who were sitting daintily on one of the sofas, "as your gowns for this evening were a surprise, we could not be certain of a suitable accessory. However, we do hope this choice will not offend you. I am now certain it won't clash."

He handed his box to Anthea, and Lestrade his to Sally. When they opened them, they found the most delicate of anklets in white gold. Anthea smiled widely, and Sally gasped in astonishment, looking up at Greg with wide eyes.

"A small token of our appreciation, as Mycroft likes to say," he told Sally with a blush.

"May we?" Mycroft asked, holding out his hand for Anthea's anklet, and kneeling before her. Sally and Lestrade copied them, and moments later, the men carefully fastened the delicate links around the ladies' ankles. Anthea just beamed and hugged Mycroft, but Sally was a bit overwhelmed.

"Sir, Mr Holmes, this is… well, it's… beautiful, but… I can't… I shouldn't…"

"Oh hush, lovely Miss Sally," Mycroft said, getting up and kissing her hand like an old-fashioned gentleman. "Accept the gift in the spirit it was intended. You deserve it."

Mycroft checked his watch. It was only a few minutes before they ought to leave for the restaurant.

"Wait!" Lestrade said as John opened the door to accept a box from a broadly smiling Amanda.

"Ehm…" Greg faltered when everyone's attention turned to him, then gathered his courage. "John and I, well, we can't match gifts like those, but… we wanted to do something too."

John stepped forward with the small box and opened it to reveal boutonnieres and small corsages for the entire company. 

"We didn't know the color scheme, so we asked them to keep it neutral," John said.

Mycroft had the softest look of love on his face as he looked at his blushing Gregory, and Sherlock and the others looked delighted.

"The corsages for the ladies have these little magnets, so you won't have to prick holes into your dresses," Greg said, still blushing.

Gushing with delight, the couples each grabbed the relevant accessory for their partners and helped them put the delicate flowers on.

"You like it?" Lestrade asked softly of Mycroft, as his lover was fastening Greg's boutonniere in its proper place.

"As I said, you never cease to amaze me, Gregory Lestrade. This is the most kind and romantic gesture, and I deeply love you."

"Are these okay, Sherlock?" John said quietly, fussing with Sherlock's flower.

"A most excellent choice, John. Extremely well done."

And John took it for the compliment it was, his cheeks heating under Sherlock's tender gaze.

*****

Chef Michel appeared only moments after they'd entered Renard and been seated.

"Mr Holmes," he cooed at Mycroft, "thank you for coming back so soon."

Handshakes and kisses were shared.

"Anything in particular you fancy tonight, Mr Holmes?"

"Just your lovely dishes, Chef Michel. Please, astonish us."

Chef left and waiters arrived to pour wine.

"Greg," Sally hissed, seated next to Lestrade to make her more comfortable, "is this a bribe?"

He smiled at her.

"No. This is Mycroft, if you'll let him."

"But… the jewelry, and the clothes! Don't think I don't know he paid for all that! And now this meal? And why is no one looking at a menu?"

"Sal!" he whispered back. "If you want, you can pay him back for everything if that would make you feel better. It's not a bribe. There's nothing expected in return. This is thanks."

"He could just say thank you," Sally muttered very quietly.

The wine had been poured, and they all raised their glasses at Mycroft's prompt.

"A toast!" he said. "To rocks and dams!" Sherlock and Greg grinned, while most of the others looked puzzled. "But also, to Sergeant Sally Donovan. An extraordinary woman who became a friend and played a pivotal role in a most disturbing situation." He looked at her meaningfully. "Thank you."

The others nodded.

"To Miss Sally!" Mycroft said, and sipped his wine.

"Miss Sally," the others repeated, and drank as well.

Sally hid her blush behind her wineglass, knowing everyone could see it anyway.

*****

The meal this time had eight courses. Two of them were fish, of which Sally generally was not a fan, but after seeing and hearing Lestrade groan around his first bite, she gave it a try, and loved it. This was not like the fish nuggets she'd been served for tea in her youth, and while she did like a bit of cod with her chips at the local chippy, this was nothing like that either. At least half the time, she had no idea of exactly what was on her plate, but it was all delicious. Of course, the quiet explanations and jokes from Anthea and Lestrade, who were seated on either side of her, helped tremendously.

Anthea explained about the Chef's Choice menu, which, like Greg, she could see going wrong in some places, but not in a restaurant like this. And not with Mycroft Holmes. Even though they were once again at a round table, it was still clear to everyone that Mycroft was the king. And he was a benevolent one, chatting to and looking after everyone, even his parents this time. The only choice Sally had to make was for dessert: did she want sweet or savoury. The waiter was the only one who raised an eyebrow when she chose savoury, the others had already guessed Sally wasn't a sweet kind of girl. But Sally saw the eyebrow, and worried despite the completely mellow atmosphere.

"Did I make the wrong choice? Should I have gone for sweet?"

She asked the question basically of the tablecloth in front of her, not sure by now whether to ask Lestrade or Anthea (and seriously, who ever would have thought she would turn to her DI for dining etiquette? Or that she'd need to?), but the answer came from both sides at once.

"You can choose whatever you like!"

In the end, she and Anthea, who'd chosen the sweet dessert platter, shared various bits. Sally enjoyed her savoury cheeses very much, and also liked some of the sweet items on Anthea's plate, but as she had suspected most of them had chocolate in them, and she gladly left those to Anthea.

As they were finishing their meal, Sally looked around to see most of the other diners had finished and left, but those who hadn't were very jealous when Chef Michel once again came over to their table. This time he even sat down with them, drawing up another chair and sitting between Lestrade and Sally. The Chef ordered his 'special coffee' for the entire table including himself, and it turned out to be a magnificent concoction that consisted mainly of syrup and cream and booze, with just a hint of coffee that would certainly not keep them awake at night. Mycroft protested lightly, eyeing it with desire, and Michel shared a look with Lestrade.

"Mr Holmes, please. Allow me to have you end the meal as it should be, with this drink. Besides, your waistline is much slimmer than it should be for a man of your age and distinction, so please, do at least try it."

Lestrade, Sherlock and Anthea shot Michel a grateful smile, and Mycroft huffed.

"If I try it, Michel, I shall drink all of it! I won't be able to help myself."

"Good," Lestrade murmured. "Go on, take a sip."

John felt a little sad, both that Greg couldn't kiss his lover like he so obviously wanted to, and that Mycroft still felt that way about food and calories, even after working through such a sumptuous meal. But the courses had been small and relatively healthy, so he could see how Mycroft justified that to himself. This though… He shot a quick glance at Mother Holmes, and noticed he was not the only one. 

"Mycroft," she said from across the table, then picked up her glass and sipped the drink, "it is absolutely delicious. You simply must try it. It will do you good."

Still grumbling a little, Mycroft gave in. Lestrade shot a small but grateful smile at Mummy, which she returned.

Finishing the drink over more chatter with Chef Michel about the food, they concluded their dinner and were driven home. By unspoken agreement, they all retired immediately when they got back to the house. 

*****

Sally's eyes widened when Anthea brought her into the bathroom in Anthea's suite after they had both changed out of their gowns. Flickering candles had been placed on the available surfaces, and a hot bath with luscious bubbles had already been drawn. 

"Let me take care of you," Anthea whispered, sliding Sally's robe off her shoulders and guiding her into the bath. 

For a while, they just sat there, Sally's back resting against Anthea's front, Anthea's legs and arms wrapped around the Sergeant. Soft kisses were pressed against the back and sides of her neck, and every now and then Sally turned her head so lips could capture lips. Fingers slid across skin, silky smooth with the soothing bubbles. Sally shivered in delight as delicate fingers trailed over her breasts, but when they glided down to trail up her inner thighs towards her centre, Sally stopped them.

"Wait, I…"

Anthea nuzzled into the few curls that had escaped the loose bun that held Sally's hair out of the water. 

"What is it, dear?"

"Well, it's just… I…"

"What are you worried about?"

Sally sighed and closed her eyes, leaning back. 

"Is this just once? Or will I see you again?"

"Would you like to see me again?"

"Yes. I like you, and I like being with you, and I like everything we've done so far. But if this is going where I think it's going, I need to know if you want more from me too. I'm not saying no if you don't, but I'd like to know that up front."

"Oh, Sally… I'd very much like to see you again, and explore you further."

"Okay… you'd like to, but will you?"

Anthea chuckled.

"You really are a copper, aren't you? So suspicious! Delightful!"

She kissed Sally's neck again.

"That's still not an answer."

"I'm taking my time."

"The more time you take, the less comfortable I'm getting about the answer."

"My answer is, my sweet Sally, that I shall do whatever is in my power to ensure that I see as much of you as possible."

Sally shivered.

"And again, that's not an answer to my question."

"Clever girl."

Anthea shifted a bit to the side, so she could see Sally's face, and Sally hers. She kissed her softly.

"I will take you out on proper dates, just you and I. I will text you to tell you how much I miss you. I will come visit you at your flat every time I can possible manage, and hold you and kiss you and take you apart before I put you back together again. I will send you coffee when you're having a long day, and bathe you clean after you've been to a crime scene. I will make love to you as long as you let me. Is that answer enough?"

Sally swallowed.

"Yeah, alright."

"But you must understand," Anthea said seriously, "it may not happen often. I have my work, just like you do, and my hours are even longer than yours. There will be much I cannot tell you, and you cannot ask me about. Can you cope with that?"

"Like Lestrade and Mycroft, you mean?"

"Exactly like that, Sally. Think of us as the next generation."

Sally did think about that, and when she pictured Lestrade handing her the keys to his office and Mycroft handing Anthea the keys to the castle before the two men rode off into the sunset, she giggled.

"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that."

"Then may I please take you to bed?"

Sally kissed her.

"Please do."

It was a long time before they finally fell asleep, aglow with satisfaction and at least the beginnings of love.

*****

One floor below, Sherlock and John retreated to their own rooms to change, and John waited for Sherlock to join him. When he did, Sherlock looked a little uncertain. John immediately worried.

"John? Would you like to join me in my room tonight?"

The doctor breathed a sigh of relief, now understanding the mild anxiety. If he joined Sherlock in his own room, Sherlock would have nowhere to retreat. Physically, yes, of course, he could go to the master bedroom, or even into John's room, or perhaps downstairs or to any of the other guest rooms. But emotionally, John would be in Sherlock's domain, which he knew had never been shared with anyone, not even Mycroft and Lestrade.

"Yes. If you're sure."

Instead of blustering, Sherlock simply nodded. John followed him, and climbed into Sherlock's bed.

They shared deep, languid kisses, which grew heated pretty quickly. As John's arousal grew, and he felt Sherlock rutting against him, John felt something click in his mind. This was what he'd been waiting for. To be invited into Sherlock's territory, to be shown that level of trust, was the last missing piece.

He didn't ask. More than enough words had been spoken between all of them in the last few weeks, all of it leading up to this. Reaching out and happily finding Sherlock was normal in at least this one aspect, he found supplies in the bedside table. Sherlock's eyes widened and then, clearly deducing John's intentions, gave him the softest and happiest of smiles.

It seemed like only moments later they were both naked and getting ready. Sherlock was laid out under him, legs spread, and for a moment John had an unkind thought that Sherlock was just like a girl, a woman waiting to wrap her arms and legs around him as he thrust into her. And then he looked into Sherlock's eyes and understood. It was intentional. Sherlock's logic had decided it would be more comfortable, more familiar for John like this. Though he wasn't entirely happy with that thought, he did appreciate it. He only felt the tiniest hint of nerves crawling down his spine as he coated his fingers and gently breached Sherlock.

The minuscule part of his brain still capable of rational thought while the rest was occupied coordinating his fingers, his lips and the rest of his body, thought it wasn't all that different, really. The kisses were fantastic, the breathy moans and soft grunts exciting, and his fingers inside another's body on the quest for pleasure. What was different though, was the depth of emotion surrounding it all. This wasn't just another body, just another human being to share pleasure with. This was Sherlock. And that made all the difference.

Time was lost. Reason fled. John removed his fingers and lined up, pressing inside. There was heat, and it was tight, and it was Sherlock who was moaning into his ear in deep satisfaction. John moved slowly, for both their sakes. They kissed and moved, and at some point he felt Sherlock's hand between them, obviously stroking himself as John needed all his concentration to keep moving his hips and lips to bring Sherlock pleasure. He couldn't tell how long it lasted, but when Sherlock bucked and groaned and tightened in his climax, John forgot all reason and will. He pushed in hard and lost himself.

John tried to roll away, give some relief from his weight, but arms and legs held him in place. He happily rested for a bit, exhausted and thrilled. When they finally were able to move again, he rolled to the side and breathed deeply before he opened his eyes. Sherlock lay there with that same look of pure bliss on his face John had seen before. Not from drugs, but from him. He gently traced his fingers over Sherlock's face and torso until those spectacular eyes finally opened and turned to him. He smiled.

"I need a shower," John said, and rolled off the bed. As he reached the bathroom door, he looked back to find Sherlock watching him anxiously. "Aren't you joining me?" he asked, holding out his hand. Sherlock's face softened into relief, and he came to join him. 

Standing under the spray together, having washed and now just relaxing, John held Sherlock tightly.

"You thought I meant I needed to wash the experience off of me."

"You didn't hate it?"

"Not at all. I loved it, because I love you."

He let Sherlock kiss him for a bit, before he pulled back and stared at the detective seriously.

"And you? Did you hate it? Did I hurt you?"

Clearly having found his brain again, Sherlock smiled and shook his head.

"As I had already deduced you would be, John, you were perfect."

After a perfunctory drying, they checked the sheets and found them acceptable, then settled into bed again, not bothering with clothes. John held Sherlock tightly, and right before he fell asleep, heard a soft whisper.

"I love you too, John."

*****

At the same time Sherlock was getting John exactly where he wanted him, Mycroft was in his favorite place in the world too. Lestrade was on his back, legs pulled up behind him, and Mycroft was straddling him, the detective inspector buried deep inside of him. Gregory's hands traced soft paths over Mycroft's chest and legs, both of them moving slowly and gently. 

"We shall have to see about better sound insulation for these rooms," Mycroft whispered.

Lestrade groaned, both because of the statement and due to a particularly wicked twist of hips Mycroft subjected him to.

"Mycroft, please!" he breathed.

"I never realized the walls between Sherlock's and our rooms were so thin," Mycroft teased.

"Oh God, My!"

"Nor that the house would be so rife with sex, if we let other people inside."

"Mycroft!"

"It's even obvious what's going on upstairs," Mycroft said quietly, raising and lowering himself hard a time or two.

"My!"

"Next thing you know, we'll be hearing…"

"Okay, that's it!" Lestrade growled, grabbing Mycroft and rolling them over, then hammering into him relentlessly. From Mycroft's delighted moans and looks of bliss, Greg knew he'd been played. This was exactly what Mycroft had wanted, and he'd used his brother and John, Anthea and Sally, and even threatened with the parents to get it. But at that moment, Gregory couldn't care less. He was in his favorite place in the world too, inside Mycroft, and driving his lover out of his mind. He saw exactly the moment all coherent speech left Mycroft's brain, and he couldn't help but look a little smug and proud. Yeah, he did that. Biggest brain in Britain, if not the world, and it all got turned to mush by him, Gregory Lestrade.

A little while later, as they were lying together in gently fading rapture, Greg squeezed his lover to him.

"If you want it hard instead of slow, you could just tell me, you know."

"But, Gregory, what would be the fun in that?"

"Now I'm going to have pictures in my head forever!"

"I thought pictures of people having sex were supposed to be stimulating? Isn't that what pornography is all about?"

Lestrade's head jerked up and he squinted at his lover suspiciously.

"What do you know about porn?"

"Please, Gregory, I am not some innocent teenager."

"Thank God for that. And don't watch porn! If you want to look at naked men, call me. I'll happily strip for you. And don't ever threaten me with an image of your," he swallowed, "parents in bed together again. I'm serious. Don't do that."

"Alright, I promise. But images of Sherlock and John, or Anthea and Sally are fine then?"

"God help me," Lestrade sighed. "No!"

"But Gregory, I would not deny you your stimulation. How can I ensure your viewing pleasure?"

"Not by bringing your family into it, that's for sure," Greg huffed.

"So no pornography and no actual acquaintances, no matter how visually pleasant they may be. Got it. Then what?"

Lestrade took Mycroft's chin and pulled him in so they could look at each other.

"I just need you. One look at you, and I'm good to go. Alright?"

"You are the strangest man, Gregory. I don't see what could possibly be arousing about me, but if you say so… I guess I shall just have to believe you."

Watching Mycroft's eyes, Lestrade saw this was not a self deprecating putdown, it was a tease. He kissed Mycroft, hard and swift.

"Believe me. You are more than I could ever have wished for. Now sleep, so this old man can prove to you again how much you turn me on in the morning."

"If you say so, dearest," Mycroft smiled as he snuggled into Gregory and fell asleep.

*****

The next morning's breakfast was both cheerful and subdued. They were all happy from the previous night (and for some, that morning too), but it was also the ending of what had turned out to be a wonderful long weekend. Mycroft and Anthea, Lestrade and Sally were all returning to work again that day, and Sherlock and John had decided to go see Mrs Hudson at Baker Street. Though no one had said it out loud, it was clear they might not return to the house. 

For the parents too, it was bittersweet. The threat was over, and so there was no reason for them to remain at Mycroft's residence with their children any longer. 

*****

"Donovan!" Dimmock exclaimed with honest cheer when she made her way to her desk after she and Lestrade had been dropped off by one of Mycroft's cars. Anthea had assured her that her bag and new clothes would be delivered to her flat in the course of the day. She had decided to wear one of the new outfits Anthea had chosen for her during their shopping trip. Though pleased enough to be back at work, she was somehow glad it was lunchtime and almost none of her fellow officers were around.

"Phew!" Dimmock whistled. "Looking good, Sally!"

"Thanks!" she preened a little. "You like?" She gave him a playful twirl.

"Great clothes!" he smiled. "But I didn't mean just that. You look good. Rested and happy?"

"Oh! Yeah, I had a long weekend. It was wonderful."

"Yeah? What did you do?"

"You know," she shrugged, "fresh air, exercise, good food, good company." Unconsciously she mimicked Mycroft's words.

"Well, it suits you. Soooo… " he trailed off. 

She raised a questioning eyebrow.

"You and Lestrade, huh?" he asked.

"What?"

"Come on, Donovan. You know better than that. The two of you left together last Thursday, you with a packed bag. Quiet weekend away?"

She froze.

"Dimmock, Donovan, my office, now!" Lestrade's voice growled behind them.

A few moments later, the two of them were seated in the visitor's chairs in front of Lestrade's desk, and he slammed his door shut behind them before making his way over to sit behind his desk.

"And this day started out so well," he muttered, rubbing his hand over his face. He looked up at Dimmock.

"Who else knows?"

"No one, I think," he said earnestly. "I was out back smoking after my shift, no one else was around. Unless they watch the CCTV footage, I don't think anyone else saw the two of you leaving together in one of those fancy black cars."

He looked from one to the other.

"I didn't say anything to anyone else."

Lestrade took out his phone and called a number. It was not the usual one, but one that told the recipient of the call to be careful.

"Yes?" came a stern voice Sally recognized as Mycroft's.

"You're on speaker phone. Donovan, Dimmock and myself in attendance. Sergeant Donovan and I were observed getting into a black car last Thursday. There may be CCTV footage."

"No, there isn't," Mycroft said without hesitation. "Who observed?"

"Dimmock."

"Who was told?"

"No one, he says."

"I didn't tell anyone, I swear!" Dimmock said. "And I'm positive no one else saw. I was just teasing Donovan, I promise."

"Why?" Mycroft's voice was cold.

"Oh, come on!" Dimmock huffed, completely ignoring he didn't know who he was talking to or what the consequences might be. "Everyone's still pissed at her for what happened to Sherlock Holmes, even though they know she did the only thing she could! And now they're all pretending they knew better. Yeah, screw that! Sally's a great officer, and doesn't deserve this! But now Lestrade's been singling her out more, and she was part of that secret sting thing, and Danning adored her. And then I see Lestrade and her get into one of those cars that we all know whisk Lestrade away sometimes, and she comes back looking all happy and… New clothes, and sudden long weekend and… I just… You're Mycroft Holmes, right?"

"Excellent guess, Detective Inspector Dimmock."

"Oh, fuck me. So, am I going to have to pack for Siberia or wherever?"

Mycroft chuckled.

"Not just yet. What do you intend to do with this information, DI Dimmock?"

"Nothing! Like I said, I was just teasing Sally!"

"Well," Mycroft replied, "having just looked at the footage, I ascertain you to be genuine. I would refrain, if I were you, from 'teasing' colleagues about such things in future. It might lead to unpleasant circumstances, with your Human Resources Department too, I gather. This weekend, Sergeant Donovan was debriefed about her most excellent part in the sting operation you mentioned. Luckily, we were able to forego the usual drab colored interrogation rooms and settle somewhere more pleasant, with fresh air and…"

"Yeah, I got that part," Dimmock muttered.

"Oh, I do apologize if I'm boring you," Mycroft said sarcastically.

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes," Dimmock blanched.

"Well! It seems we understand each other. Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah, I've got it from here, Mr Holmes."

"Thank you. I shall speak to you shortly."

The line was cut without any further word.

"Fuck," Lestrade breathed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Now he's pissed at me." He looked up again. "Okay!" he said with faux cheer, "Who wants to play 'Things I'll never ever talk about or even mention again for as long a I live' with me?"

They stared at him.

"I said: who wants to play?"

Both Sally and Dimmock raised their hands.

"Good!" Lestrade exclaimed. "So, the last ten minutes falls into that category! Dimmock never saw us leave together, never said anything to you other than to welcome you back, and I never made that phone call. Are we clear?"

They both nodded.

"Excellent! I love my job! Now, both of you get out of my office, give me ten minutes to get yelled at, and then come back in with coffee for me - black, two sugars - and close the door behind you before you sit right back down just where you are now."

They didn't move. He stared at them.

"Shoo!" he bit out.

They left. He dialed again, the normal number this time.

"Gregory? Are you alright, my dearest?"

Lestrade almost laughed. Almost.

"Thought you'd be angry."

"For what? Protecting the family? How could I fault you for that?"

"I did it for Sally, My. I needed Sally to know I wasn't going to let any further rumors spread about her."

"As I said, it was for family."

Lestrade blinked away tears as he smiled.

"Thank you."

"No thanks needed. I'll have the footage from your office scrubbed as well. Let me know when you're done?"

"I will. I love you, My."

"At the risk of scaring you, I feel it important to say that there is nothing - nothing - I would not do for you, Gregory."

Lestrade laughed through his threatening tears. 

"I really do love you, you know, no matter what."

"I sincerely hope you do." There was a bit of silence, and Greg could hear papers being shuffled. "Tend to your team, Gregory. I shall handle the rest."

"Thank you, My."

The dial tone in response didn't come as a surprise.

*****

"So," Lestrade said, sipping the coffee Dimmock and Donovan had brought him exactly ten minutes after he'd dismissed them, "let's talk for a bit."

He could tell Dimmock was still worried about sassing Mycroft Holmes and would have liked to ask for some more reassurance, but that would contradict Lestrade's order that that call had never happened. He settled for sipping his own coffee as comfort.

"There's been too much rumor flying around here for my taste, and not enough genuine talk. Dimmock, you'll understand I can't tell you all the details, but I can tell you that Danning was in trouble, and Donovan helped get him out of it. Thing is, I have the feeling it might have been prevented if I'd had more time for my team. Sally too. How's your team doing in that respect?"

Dimmock thought for a few moments. This was not what he'd been expecting, and he wanted to give an honest and clear answer.

"There's been more pressure lately," he finally said. "My team is not as large as yours, not nearly, but we've been getting more cases assigned to us in the last year, and yeah, there's been less time to check in with everyone, especially the newbies kind of fall through the cracks. I remember sitting down at least once every two weeks with my DI back when I was a PC, in his office or over coffee, or even lunch sometimes. I've got two PCs now I haven't really spoken to that way at all. Haven't really sat down with my Sergeants in a while either. I see your concern."

Lestrade nodded. 

"That's part of the reason I've been sitting down with Sally more. We both have concerns, and then the Danning thing kind of underlined it for us. But back to the rumors first. Is there anything you'd feel comfortable telling us about those?"

Dimmock eyed them both.

"Is this an interrogation?"

"Nothing of the sort. If you don't want to tell us anything, that's fine. If you say you don't know anything, that's fine too. I'm just looking for things and ways to improve, and I could use your help. Both of you."

Dimmock drained the last of his coffee, and stood.

"I need more coffee. You?"

They handed their empty mugs to him, and he left the office.

"Are you sure about this, Boss? Maybe it'd be better with just the two of you?"

Lestrade shook his head at her.

"No, I want you in. Do you remember what Mycroft said about the need for me to have a deputy? There's only one person I'd trust in that position, Sally, and that's you. If you want, of course."

She smiled at him, and he could see the genuine emotion and gratitude in it.

"And I told you, I go where you go. I'll stay with you forever if you let me."

Dimmock reappeared and handed out coffee after closing the office door again.

"Okay," he said, sitting down. "There's the usual stuff. You know, about Sherlock and the work he does for us, and how exactly he does it. And of course, about Sherlock and Watson and their relationship, mainly about whether there is one, in the romantic sense."

Both Lestrade and Donovan smiled at that.

"There's always someone who feels the need to bring up the Moriarty thing whenever Sherlock pulls a rabbit out of the hat, and then inevitably, Donovan and Anderson get a mention. Sorry, Sally."

She waived his apology away.

"There's you, Lestrade, and those fancy black cars and that pretty brunette who shows up here sometimes to take you away. And of course, Mycroft Holmes, who everyone knows sends those cars for you, and who supposedly wipes away any trouble you, his brother and Watson might get into. Those are the oldies but goodies."

Greg nodded, not too bothered.

"Then there's the new ones, from the last few weeks. Your absence has been much speculated about, Lestrade. I've heard everything from you being taken away for a special MI6 mission, to you going on a secret honeymoon, to you being suspended by the Chief Constable? That little stare down you had with him on the floor out there - that you won - of course heavily favored the last one. Donovan being in here a lot was talked about too, but then the Danning thing had that mostly down to that. I've heard the Chief Constable is on the take, and the Chief Superintendent either knows and participates, or knows and is being set up to take the fall for it. Some have you, or either Holmes, or a combination of the three of you blackmailing one or both of the Chiefs."

Lestrade let out a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. Dimmock smiled without amusement.

"That the kind of thing you were looking for? I'm guessing you're not so much interested in hearing that Peters is reportedly planning to ask Anna Dapps in Fraud to marry him, or that PC Diel is supposedly pregnant, but not by her husband but by Sergeant Jones, the guy who was on temporary assignment from Manchester."

"You are remarkably well informed," Lestrade said, eyes widening a little. Dimmock shrugged.

"I'm a likable guy, and I have sharp eyes and ears. One other thing: I've heard the Chief Constable was called into MI6, that Sherlock broke into his office, and that there was a hearing involving the Chief. Since he's still in the job, I'm assuming that hearing, if it took place, went well for him. If it happened, that was Mycroft Holmes, right? But I've heard the Chief didn't know who called him in or why."

Lestrade smirked.

"Mycroft Holmes reportedly is a minor government official, Dimmock. He may have access to cars, and be able to call in favors on behalf of his brother, but no minor government official has ever had dealings with either of the Chiefs as far as I know. I sincerely doubt either of them even know his name."

Donovan admired how smoothly Lestrade played with the truth. She guessed a decade with the Holmeses had taught him well. Dimmock obviously felt the same, because his smile this time held mirth.

"And we should see to it things stay like that, then?"

"I have no wish to besmirch a man's reputation, especially not if it is undeserved. I've had some bad experience with that."

"Right…" Dimmock grinned. "So what's all this in aid of then? What are you planning?"

"Nothing definitive, yet. Just checking my options."

"Of course. If that's all? I've got a team to check up on."

Lestrade nodded, and Dimmock and Donovan got up to leave.

"Hey, Lestrade?" Dimmock said, before he opened the door for himself and Sally. "If you're planning to finally take that promotion to DCI I've heard you've turned down at least twice? I'd be happy to fold my team into yours and work for you."

He grinned again, and let Sally and himself out. Greg pressed a few buttons on his phone's screen again.

"Admirably done, Gregory," Mycroft said as his greeting. "I'll see to it the footage is scrubbed."

"He's a good man, My."

"I believe you. I'll see you tonight?"

"Yeah. Just paperwork today. I'll be out of here by six."

"Good. We have some more fish to fry, I fear."

"Can we eat them?"

Mycroft laughed.

"You balk at teasing involving their possible sex lives, but cannibalizing my family is perfectly acceptable?"

Greg chuckled.

"We'll see, dearest, we'll see. I love you."

"Love you too, My," Greg said, and was gratified that this time, he wasn't saying it to a dial tone.

*****

Mrs Hudson was ecstatic to have her two Baker Street Boys back in her flat.

"And how was dinner last night, boys? And the new frocks? Do you have any pictures of Anthea and Sally? They were so excited to be going shopping. And your poor father, did he enjoy himself? It's such a pity Molly is attending that conference, and just when we're all having such a good time! Did Mrs Weaver enjoy the pies, dears, or did she throw them away right after I left?"

Sherlock and John let her ramble on for more than half an hour whilst they sipped tea and dunked biscuits. They knew there was little use in trying to answer her questions, Mrs Hudson would run out of steam eventually, and then they would tell her all about it. It was over an hour later that they finally made it upstairs. John sank into his chair, and waited for Sherlock to stop darting around and sit across from him. They relished the silence for a bit.

"It's quiet here," Sherlock said at last.

"Well, your violin is still at Mycroft's, so…"

Sherlock remained still.

"Tea?" John asked, just for something to do.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, thinking.

The silence continued for a while even after they had both emptied their mugs, until Sherlock finally spoke.

"Do you wish to stay here, John?"

"Well, it's home."

Sherlock stared at the floor.

"Isn't it?" John asked.

It was only the smallest of winces, but John knew Sherlock well, and caught it.

"It isn't. Not for you," he understood suddenly. "Your home is with your brother."

When Sherlock finally looked up, his eyes were scared.

"Is that… wrong, John? Does that upset you?"

John had been thinking about this since their earlier talk about returning to Baker Street.

"Actually, no. One of the things I've always worried about is you being so alone. I know now that that wasn't quite true, and now that I've seen with my own eyes how much you and your brother mean to each other, I can understand why you'd feel that way. And Greg's there too, of course. You're more relaxed, more comfortable in their house than you are anywhere else, even here."

"But you are here, and I don't want…"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, not wanting to force his lover into a difficult expression of his emotions, when John already understood. "You want to ask your brother if we can stay with them a little while longer?"

The relief the consulting detective felt was palpable, and then he smiled.

"I don't need to ask Mycroft. I need to ask you. Would you mind?"

John smiled back.

"Would I mind staying in a mansion where there's a staff to take care of everything so I won't have to do any chores, where there's a private gym and pool available to me at all times and where you're happy? No, I don't think I'd mind that."

Sherlock grinned at him.

"Mycroft and Greg would be there too. Don't forget that."

"Oddly, I'm okay with that. I've always liked Greg, and your brother's grown on me."

"I'm not saying I want to stay there permanently, but while you and I are exploring this new side of our relation, it would steady me to have them close."

Sherlock looked at John tentatively, not scared but a little worried about what he'd just said. John just nodded.

"Actually, I think maybe it would steady me too. I'll admit that most of the time, their proximity is soothing. As long as they don't ask for details."

They both grinned a little ruefully at that. 

"What do we tell Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock asked.

"The truth. That we're staying at the house a little longer, but that we're still her tenants, and we'll come visit often. We'll have to, because I don't think your brother's security detail will be very happy if I put Mycroft's address on my blog so our potential private clients will come calling there."

John's eyes twinkled merrily at the thought, and Sherlock burst into laughter.

Mrs Hudson came upstairs to check on them when she heard them rummaging around as they packed a few more things to take back to the house. As they dithered over how to tell her what they'd decided, she proved once again she was not really the scatter-brained old lady she liked to pretend to be.

"Oh, boys! It'll be good for you to spend some more time together, the four of you! And I'll see lots of you, every time you have a client visit. And whenever you want, you can move back in."

"You'll not want to let it to someone else, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock Holmes!" she admonished him. "Did I let it out to someone else while you were off playing with Moriarty's network? No, I did not! Besides, your brother signed a lease with me on your behalf for twenty years, so I couldn't even if I wanted to. Which I don't."

While John gaped at that little piece of information, Sherlock hugged the woman.

"Hudders, you amazing woman! Don't ever change!"

She giggled girlishly, then lightly slapped his arm.

"Leave off, Sherlock, it's not decent."

He planted a smacking kiss on her cheek.

*****

Sherlock and John were the first to arrive back at the house, and their things were quickly stored away in their rooms. Then they went to find the parents, who were enjoying the sun and a drink on the patio. Joining them, the four played many hands of cards over drinks and amiable chatter. Lestrade arrived next, came to find them, and seemed relieved that Sherlock and John were there. John suddenly realized his friend had been worried they'd stay at Baker Street, and could only wonder how worried Mycroft would then be at that as well.

Very worried, was the answer when Mycroft arrived. When he saw them sitting on the patio, Mycroft smiled broadly, squeezed John's shoulder and kissed Sherlock's curls. Only then did he go upstairs to change.

As Mycroft joined them again on the patio with a drink of his own, the card game was abandoned for talking about their day. For Mycroft and Anthea, who had decided to go back to her own flat for the night, nothing much out of the ordinary had happened. They were frequently out of the office for extended periods of time and had kept in touch anyway, so no one had raised an eyebrow. Besides, who in their right mind would demand an explanation from Mycroft Holmes on his whereabouts and actions?

John and Sherlock told them of their visit to Mrs Hudson, and their decision to stay at the house a while longer. John had worried a little about inviting himself to live in another man's house without warning, but having seen the relief on Greg and Mycroft when they found them home, that had abated. At the pronouncement, Mycroft grabbed his little brother in a tight hug, murmuring to him softly, and Greg did the same to John.

"I'm glad, John. I think it's a great decision. You're very welcome here."

After they'd released, Mycroft loosely embraced John, a little awkwardly, but no less heartfelt. 

"Yes, thank you. You are certainly welcome, John."

Sherlock had been caught by Lestrade, who held him close, and instead of squirming uncomfortably, Sherlock melted into Greg.

"Thanks, kiddo. Finally. That makes me very happy."

And once again John had a flash of understanding. Lestrade and Mycroft had been lobbying for Sherlock to stay with them before, and for more than just the sporadic visits when Sherlock needed their comfort. It was Sherlock who had always pulled away again, and both older men were very happy that he was now willing to stay.

Then it was Lestrade's turn. He and Sally definitely were the ones who had had the most explaining to do at work, but obviously they'd kept it vague. He discussed the conversation he'd had with Dimmock and Sally in detail. 

"So, are you finally going to listen and accept your promotion then, Grant?" Sherlock smirked.

Lestrade smiled briefly at him, then sighed.

"I don't think I've got much of a choice, really. Not if I want to actually change things for the team. Bringing in another DCI will only lead to trouble, for the team and for me, and the structure does really need to be changed if we don't want to have any more of these problems."

That discussion lasted until halfway through dinner, everyone weighing in to a certain extent.

"And you, Father? Mother?" Mycroft asked, when Lestrade indicated he didn't want to talk about work anymore for now.

"Well, it depends," Father replied. "Now that there is no more threat to us, we should obviously return home to the cottage, but…" he turned to his wife.

"We were… I was hoping maybe we could stay until after the weekend?" Mother Holmes asked. "I know you all have work, and I'd like to spend a little more time with you all before we go? If you are amenable?"

It was a request, not an order, and it was sincere. The four men glanced at each other. Mycroft gave a small smile.

"I think I can free the weekend, barring any emergencies, of course. Gregory?"

"I'm not on roster, so it should be fine for me."

John nodded at Sherlock.

"If there is no interesting case, we are amenable," Sherlock finally said.

*****

The next three days were quiet. During the day, Lestrade and Mycroft went to work, John had a few clinic hours, and Sherlock scoured some cold cases Lestrade had dug up for him. At night, they played and dined and talked. 

On Friday afternoon, an almost bashful Sally Donovan scuttled into Lestrade's office. He smiled at her.

"I… Well, Anthea asked…" she blushed.

"Want to catch a ride with me?" Lestrade grinned.

"Are you sure it's okay? No one will mind?"

He just laughed and shook his head.

They were actually the last to arrive, and Sally was greeted by cheery grins and words of welcome, and an enthusiastic hug and kiss from Anthea. They'd called and texted each other a few times since the weekend, but hadn't seen each other, and the kiss made Sally blush all over again. 

They had games until dinner, enjoyed a fabulous meal, and afterwards, Mycroft and Sherlock played music for them again. They all retired after that, and the guest room that had been made up for Sally went unused.

*****

On Saturday, by popular demand, they all returned to the farm, where Dennis had their preferred rides all set up for them. They didn't take lunch, because they wanted to make use of what threatened to be one of the last fine summer days for another of Anthea's barbecues, which lasted well into the night. 

When they woke late on Sunday morning, storm clouds were rolling in.

The rain started to fall during breakfast, and they spent the day inside, in and around the pool, and playing games. Most of all, they talked. All of them, including the parents.

Monday morning appeared as a grey and tedious thing as they assembled for breakfast at seven, after which they took their leave of each other. Mr and Mrs Holmes returned to their cottage, Mycroft and Anthea, Lestrade and Sally to the office, and Sherlock and John to their blog to find a new case.

Summer was over.

*****

"Lestrade," Greg answered his desk phone absently a few weeks later. Damn, he was just getting into this file on a robbery turned homicide. Who was disturbing him now?

"Detective Inspector Lestrade? This is Cindy, from the Chief Constable's office. Could you please come to his office?"

"Now?"

"If you would, please."

"Ehm… Yeah, sure, I'll be right there."

He hung up and grabbed his jacket. Why was he being called to see the Chief Constable? In a small act of defiance, he didn't bother with a tie. He arrived and was shown in immediately.

"Lestrade," the Chief Constable greeted him, gesturing him to a chair in front of the desk. The Chief Superintendent was standing in a corner.

"Sir," Greg said, taking the seat. "Am I in trouble?"

The Chief Constable sighed, then opened a file that was lying in front of him on the desk.

"There is an open position for a Detective Chief Inspector that I think would suit you."

Lestrade stiffened. This was it. They were shipping him off to be rid of him.

"Where?" he asked gruffly.

"Here, of course," the Chief said, surprised. "Lestrade, I see from your file that you have been offered promotion before and rejected it. Perhaps the right offer was never made to you. What would you want in order to accept it?"

"Why would you want me to accept it?" Lestrade countered.

The Chief frowned. This was not going how he'd expected.

"Because an officer of your record, stature and experience deserves a promotion. And because the Criminal Investigation Department, especially the teams mainly dedicated to Homicide, are growing out of proportions. CID needs a stable and capable captain at the helm, who will keep the men and women safe, while the admirals try to decide the best course of action."

Lestrade relaxed a little.

"Have I unwittingly joined Her Majesty's Navy, Sir?"

"You're making fun of me," the Chief sat back in his chair and came as close to a pout as a chief of police could come without losing all his dignity. "The offer is quite genuine."

"Well, thank you then, Sir. I'd love the opportunity to try. The main condition I have would be that I could choose which cases to get personally involved in. I don't want to sit behind a desk every day." He swallowed, realizing he'd probably just insulted the Chief. "Sir."

"Fine," the Chief sighed, "understandable. And I take it these cases would involve the assistance of Sherlock Holmes?"

"Those are the most interesting ones, Sir."

"You said that was your main condition," the Chief Superintendent suddenly interjected. "What are the others?"

"Well, Sirs," and just like that, Lestrade was off and running. 

The meeting lasted nearly two hours as Lestrade laid out his plans and his hopes for the division, glad now that Mycroft had brought it up a few times more and forced him to think about it, and that Mycroft, Sherlock and John had weighed in with their opinions. Though Greg hadn't discussed much more in detail with Donovan and Dimmock, they had sat down together briefly a few times. So now Lestrade had a clear picture in mind, and was able to discuss his thoughts thoroughly with the Chiefs. 

"I think we can agree to all of that," the Chief Constable said when they finally ran out of topics. "You've clearly given this some thought."

"Well, Sir, as you said, this isn't the first time a promotion has been offered to me. I have had the chance to prepare should it come up again."

"And you have done so impressively." The Chief rose and held out his hand. "Shall we consider this a verbal agreement, then? I'll have the paperwork drawn up in the next few days, and we'll formalize it?"

Greg stood as well, and they shook.

"Agreed. Thank you, Sir."

Lestrade left the Chief's office with nods to both men, and found himself behind his own desk a few minutes later, throwing a stress ball up and down while he was lost in thought. Some time later, he took out his phone and sent a text.

~ They agreed to all my conditions. We have a verbal agreement, paperwork in a few days. GL

He was surprised when his phone chimed with an incoming message a few minutes later. Mycroft didn't mind receiving texts, but seldom sent one back.

~ Congratulations, dearest. Well deserved. MH

Smiling happily, Greg decided to push his luck a little further as he was having a good day, and sent a string of emoticons to his lover: hearts, kisses and winks.

~ You shall pay for that later, Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade. MH

Laughing, Greg put his phone down, looked up at where he suspected Mycroft's cameras to be, and blew a kiss in that direction before returning to work.

A few miles away, Mycroft chuckled and shook his head at the grainy image of his playful lover.

*****

Lestrade refrained from telling Donovan and Dimmock until he had the signed paperwork firmly in his hand, then called them into his office. When he told Sally of her promotion to DI and handed her the proof in black and white, she spent a few long moments glancing between it and him, tears coming to her eyes. Sure, Greg had said this was the plan, but part of her hadn't really believed he could make it happen. She clutched the papers in her hand while he hugged her and kissed her cheek.

"Congratulations, Sal. You deserve it."

She smiled tremulously at him when he released her, then grinned when Dimmock also embraced her with congratulations. She sniffed as she sat herself down again, and the three of them were just getting back to business when Lestrade's office door was flung open and Sherlock strode in, John close behind.

"I am apparently to be my brother's messenger on this occasion," Sherlock sneered disdainfully. "I blame you, Lestrade, and you shall pay for it."

"How is it my fault? Whatever 'it' is?" Greg asked with a smile.

"Obviously your masculine wiles were insufficient to keep my brother in the country. Had you seduced him more properly, he would be here now himself to bestow his congratulations, and I would have been spared this odious task."

Then Sherlock smiled, a genuine smile, and hugged Lestrade tightly, everyone ignoring Dimmock's looks as he put together a few more pieces of the puzzle.

"Congratulations, Greg."

"Thanks, kiddo," Lestrade whispered back. Though obviously it had been discussed, everyone had held off until it was official.

Sherlock then turned to Donovan and took her hand, kissing her knuckles like a gentleman.

"Congratulations, Sally."

"Thank you, Sherlock," she said, and rose to give the consulting detective a brief but honest hug, leaving him surprised.

"Yes, well," John interjected, holding up his hands to reveal he was carrying several packages. "Congratulations to all. We come with gifts."

He put the packages down on Lestrade's desk, then started handing them out according to the labels attached. There were excellent bottles of whiskey for both Lestrade and Dimmock from Mycroft, the notes congratulating Greg on his promotion and Dimmock on joining his new team, and a gift basket full of those luxury bath products she had so enjoyed at Mycroft and Greg's house for Sally. There was a box of celebratory cupcakes to be shared with the team, and as John kissed Sally's cheek in congratulations, he whispered: "There's a little something from Anthea on your desk."

Sherlock, quite obviously having had enough of the sentiment, turned to leave.

"Come, John!"

John rolled his eyes, smiled at his friends, and followed his lover out.

Chuckling, Lestrade sat again, and the other two followed suit.

"Well," Greg said cheerfully, "that was different! So, shall we get back to discussing our plans?"

They didn't speak for very long afterwards, and when the three of them came out of Lestrade's office, the rest of their team were openly staring. Sally's eyes fell on her desk, and she smiled widely as she saw the huge bouquet of flowers sitting there, with a small wrapped gift next to it.

"Alright!" Lestrade called everyone's attention to him. "You'll get an official memo later, but let's cut to the chase right now…"

There was surprisingly little grumbling about Lestrade's announcement of Donovan's promotion and Dimmock's addition to Lestrade's team. When Dimmock disclosed Lestrade's own promotion, most just mumbled something about it being 'about time', and congratulations were given to all. Dimmock was liked, almost as much as Lestrade was, and they'd warmed to Donovan again after the Danning thing. It would take weeks for them to truly sort out the new structure and get used to it, but the start was very promising.

*****

Months had passed, and Christmas was rapidly approaching. 

Mycroft and Anthea continued their ceaseless efforts to keep Britain and the world safe, and they had succeeded. Sherlock and John had been called in a few times to offer assistance, as had Lestrade, but mostly they kept their dealings in the shadows. As their relationship grew, John was asked for his opinion more often, and sat in sometimes on the strategy sessions the Holmes brothers and Anthea held, with Greg and John in the background offering up the view of the common man. 

Lestrade took to his new role perfectly. He was open, accessible and honest, and not a single man or woman on the force didn't trust him. With Donovan and Dimmock as his deputies, London CID became one of the most respected and successful teams in the realm, and Greg was rightfully proud of himself and his people.

Sherlock and John continued on as they were. Sherlock only managed to get himself stabbed twice and shot once, and only received one major head injury in the course of their cases, either for NSY or privately. John still took clinic hours, they visited 221B regularly, either for client meetings or just to see Mrs Hudson, and John's blog soared, along with Sherlock's reputation.

Sally and Anthea continued their liaison. As Anthea had warned, it was not often they had a chance to get together, but whenever they could, they met up for dinner and a night out, or more happily, take out and a night in at Anthea's secured flat. Sally also spent quite a few weekends at Mycroft and Greg's house, where Sherlock and John were also still living, and the six of them continued to grow closer.

Mr and Mrs Holmes called, at least once a week. Mostly they called Greg, as he was most likely to answer. With Mycroft always busy, Sherlock simply rude, and John still a little uncertain of his place within the family, Lestrade was their best bet. Not all was forgiven, in fact, nothing really had been forgiven, but a detente had been reached. They visited twice in those months, spending a long weekend with their sons and their partners, and while everyone was careful, especially Mummy after Sherlock's warning, the tension slowly abated.

The family was given regular updates about Eurus by Lady Smallwood, but since nothing changed there, no further visits were planned or requested.

*****

"Mycroft!" Father beamed as his eldest son stepped out of the limousine. 

"Father," Mycroft responded more quietly, letting himself be embraced. He then turned to the shorter woman standing at his father's side. 

"Mummy," he said, hugging his mother and kissing her cheek.

"We're so happy you accepted our invitation to spend Christmas with us at the cottage," she spoke, "thank you."

"Of course," Mycroft replied, stepping aside to let Gregory, Sherlock, John, Anthea and even Sally be embraced quickly but earnestly by his parents. They were ushered in and while the driver, Greg and John took up their bags, the Holmeses, Anthea and Sally stepped into the living room. 

"Thank you for inviting me, Mr and Mrs Holmes," Sally said softly as a drink was pressed into her hand.

"Of course, dear," Mrs Holmes replied. "You are very important to Anthea, and Anthea is very important to Mycroft. You are very welcome here, so Mycroft gets his way."

"Mummy," Sherlock warned.

She looked at her younger son, and saw the fire there. 

"Sherlock," she said, not bothering to hide anything, "no offense meant. I am very pleased to have you all here. Thank you for coming."

The consulting detective stared at his mother until Mycroft gently brushed his hand down Sherlock's back. They shared a look.

"Fine. Keep your tongue and your opinions to yourself, Mother," Sherlock hissed. "I did warn you."

Mrs Holmes looked at him a little sadly, but resigned. 

"I deserve that, I suppose. But I meant it."

"Good. John shall have a gin & tonic. Greg would like a beer."

Quiet laughter followed that statement, and the brothers turned to find their lovers returning downstairs. 

"I think we can ask for our own drinks, thanks?" John giggled. "But, good choice, right Greg?"

"Works for me!" Lestrade chuckled.

Father stepped up.

"I've taken the liberty of laying in some specialty beers, Greg. I personally favor this one, but you let me know what you think."

The afternoon progressed pleasantly, with talk and even laughter, which continued all through dinner. Afterwards, they played the childish games the Holmes boys loved, and everyone participated. When they finally went to bed, Sally raised an eyebrow when all four men retreated to Mycroft's room, directly across from where she and Anthea were sleeping, and Anthea smiled at her after the door had been closed. With Anthea's suite in Mycroft's house being on another floor, Sally had never seen this yet.

"Are they having a strategy session or something?" Sally asked softly as she sat down next to Anthea on the side of the bed and snuggled into her.

"You could say that," Anthea laughed, "or maybe it'd be more fair to say they are charging their batteries together."

"You mean… the four of them together? All night?"

"You've seen what they're like, my pretty. Surely it can't be that much of a surprise?"

"Well, I… I've seen Sherlock get pretty snuggly with all of them. Especially when he's tired or upset. But the other three… Are they all sleeping together?"

"If you mean sleeping as in taking rest, then yes. If you are implying having sex, then no. As you said, Sherlock gets close when he's tired or upset. Mycroft too. Can you think why they would want to be together right now?"

"Yeah. Several hours with 'Mummy' and even I'm tired," Sally admitted. "Though she's much easier now than when I first met her."

"But even so, you're still waiting for that ice and the sharp tongue to make a comeback, right?"

"It crossed my mind once or twice."

"Imagine what it's like for them. You've met her, what? Three times? They've had a couple of decades with her. No matter what she says or does, that's never going to go away. And you know what Lestrade is like, protective and caring. John as well, especially when it comes to Sherlock."

Sally nodded.

"So if you were to look into that room at any time during the night, what would you see? The two Holmes boys safe and sound and comforted in each other's company, with Lestrade and Watson surrounding them with love and protection while they are most vulnerable. Mummy isn't getting anywhere near them without Greg and John's permission."

That caused Sally to smile, seeing it in her mind's eye. She looked up.

"And you?"

Anthea laughed.

"Mummy Holmes may be a formidable woman, but she's got nothing on me. It doesn't matter if she hates me, I have no relation with her and no wish for one. My concern is Mycroft, those he loves, and you. So don't worry, pretty, I'll keep you safe."

She followed it up with a soft kiss, drawn out for quite some time, but staying gentle. Sally was still smiling when the two of them settled in bed and fell asleep.

*****

Across the hall, the scene was exactly as Anthea had predicted. 

"She's been decent," Sherlock whispered to his brother as they lay close together, Lestrade and John bracketing them from either side.

"I keep expecting a snide remark."

"We all do," John said quietly.

"It's very tiring," Sherlock sighed.

"It is, my sweet. Still, I'm glad we've reached this point."

The two brothers looked at each other with understanding. They didn't care so much for their own sakes, but for their partners.

"So sleep now," Lestrade rumbled. "If things continue to go well, we've got an entire day tomorrow and breakfast on Boxing Day. If not, we've got a long drive back to London. With me and John guarding the door, you've got several hours of undisturbed rest. So take it."

"Of course, dearest," Mycroft smiled, and Sherlock huffed out a chuckle.

John had offered to bring a padlock and some fastenings to put on the inside of the bedroom door, but Mycroft hadn't wanted to be cut off from Anthea in case anything happened. Besides, Greg and John were both light sleepers who would wake up as soon as the door was approached.

They didn't need their guards that time. Father Holmes had spoken rather sternly with his wife, and she did not attempt to intrude on them at all.

*****

Despite Christmas tradition of getting up early for opening presents, they slept late the following day, and followed that up with a lavish Christmas brunch cooked by Lestrade, John, Anthea and Sally. The Holmes family sat at the table with tea and watched and chatted with their chefs. For Mycroft and Sherlock, this was not unusual, and the parents were mostly just amused and pleased. Back at the house, Greg and John - who was by now also very friendly with the staff - often tried to help Mrs Weaver and Amanda in the kitchen, getting chided with a laugh when their work was not up to the ladies' standards. Anthea had free reign in Mycroft's kitchen, no one told her what to do, and when Sally was visiting and offered to help, she was mostly put to work dicing fruit.

It was perhaps the most warm and friendly scene any Holmes family household had ever experienced, barring Mycroft's. 

A light dusting of snow had fallen during the night and early morning, not enough for building snowmen and having a snowball fight, just a thin coating of white. So after brunch, they decided to take a stroll and stayed out for nearly two hours until they were all getting cold. Once back inside, the fire was lit, and they finally sat down to presents.

There were the traditional ones of gloves and scarves and pricy booze, of books and movies. There were the jokey ones of awful Christmas jumpers which Greg and John donned proudly and took off again ten minutes later because they were just too warm with the roaring fire. And then there were the thoughtful ones that caused the receiving party to gasp and smile. Mycroft had gone an extra round and had undoubtedly made a jeweler's day, purchasing new watches for each of the men, a delicate hat pin for his mother, and a set of necklace, earrings and bracelet for Anthea and Sally each. In overwhelmed gratitude and appreciation, Sally didn't think, just hugged Mycroft Holmes tightly and kissed his cheek in thanks, to which he blushed profusely.

As they were all pouring over their gifts in excitement, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"There is one more," he said, bringing out a large, very flat parcel, standing it up against the side of one of the armchairs. "It is from Sherlock and myself, for Gregory and John." 

Frowning, both recipients saw their lovers huddle close together as if uncertain, and grasp each others hands. They approached the gift, and while John held it steady, Greg carefully removed the paper. When the picture was revealed, they both gasped, stared at it for a long time, then turned to their lovers with moist eyes. While John and Greg embraced first their own Holmes and then the other's, and then pulled all four of them close together, they kept whispering "It's beautiful", "It's perfect" and "Thank you" over and over again.

The other four stared at it.

"It's the Reichenbach Falls," Father said, "but it looks different."

Anthea recognized it, the original hung in Mycroft's home office. This one was different indeed.

"There is a dam in the river in this one, dear," Mummy said softly, "there is not nearly as much water falling now."

Though Mr and Mrs Holmes, Anthea and Sally didn't quite understand it, it was clear that this was very significant to the others. John, having been told of Greg's waterfall metaphor months ago, understood its meaning instantly. Greg could barely hold in sobs as he clung to Mycroft.

"Yes," he whispered, "yes, you've done it, My. You promised and you've done it. You and Sherlock, both. Thank you! Thank you so much! I love you."

Mycroft swallowed and looked at Sherlock, who nodded at his big brother confidently.

"Then… now that I've proven my word… may I offer another small trinket full of meaning?"

Pulling slightly back, Mycroft held out a small box. Greg sucked in a deep breath, his eyes catching on the simple platinum band revealed when Mycroft slid open the box.

"Gregory… my brother asked you once when you were going to make an honest man out of me. Since we all know that won't happen, may I make an even more honest one out of you? Will you marry me?"

"Yes," Greg croaked. "Yes! Yes! Gods, I love you so much! Yes!"

There was much squealing and hugging and jumping up and down, and quite a few tears brushed away unashamedly.

"Yes," Greg said again. "And you are a good man, Mycroft, if maybe not always an honest one. But you only do that for the right reasons. And no one will ever be able to convince me otherwise."

Sherlock, having stood outside the spotlight for quite long enough, thank you, pushed in between the two. 

"Yes, yes," he told his brother, "hug John for a bit, will you?" 

Laughing, Mycroft and John did just that, sharing in genuine affection and mirth. Sherlock melted into Lestrade, and the two stood like that for quite a while, the others turning to watch and listen.

"So have you finally learned your lesson, Lestrade?"

"What lesson's that, kiddo?"

"I called you my brother ten years ago."

"You were completely high at the time. You really remember that?"

"I remember everything, Gotham. And the lesson you should have learned long ago: I'm never wrong."


End file.
